#I’d crack his nut any day

[hotgirlbedtimescenarios]

It’s giving Rat King from Barbie’s Nutcracker

He’s so pookie ❤️

[joelsgoldrush]

“give me the first taste” | 10k

logan howlett x f!reader

part 2 of “GUILTY PLEASURE”

"Your hungry flirt borders intrusion / And I'm building memories on things we have not said / Full is not heavy as empty, not nearly, my love / Give me the first taste / Let it begin, heaven cannot wait forever / Darling, just start start the chase, I'll let you win." The First Taste by Fiona Apple

SUMMARY: From the moment you first laid eyes on Logan, you knew he was a tough nut to crack. But if there’s one thing you love, it’s a challenge. As your relationship grows, you’re determined to show him that, in this universe, he can also be loved.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. angst. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. age-gap (reader is 25). once again wade saves the day. domestic!logan. soft dom!logan. logan calls reader “kid”. they watch (500) days of summer. oral sex (f and m receiving). fingering. thigh riding. thumb sucking. throat fucking. multiple orgasms. unprotected p in v. creampie (i would say i’m sorry but i’d be lying)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: jeez. hi guys!!! hope you’re doing alright. this is the 2nd part to “guilty pleasure.” writing for these two has been a total rollercoaster, but god was it worth it. as i always tell you, english isn’t my first language, so if you come across any mistake and you feel like letting me know, there’s no problem. thank you so much for all the support you’ve been giving my posts. i’m happy strangers out there take the time to read my silly stories :)

A girl and a mutant walk into an apartment…

Actually, you’re still trying to come up with the rest of the joke. But one thing’s true: Logan’s about to set foot in your place.

You curse under your breath, putting both your hands to work as you struggle to open the door. “Fucking swollen wood. I hate humidity,” you mutter, glancing back at Logan, who frowns as you keep trying different maneuvers to get the door to function properly.

It’s a shitty situation overall. And having that gorgeous man practically glued to your back isn’t helping in any way. You can tell he wants to give you a hand, but you’re not having it—women in STEM or something of the sort.

“May I—” he starts, though you cut him off before he can finish.

“I’ve got this. Just need to—” you say, ramming your shoulder into the door with enough force to make it finally give away. Almost stumbling over the carpet but managing to catch yourself, you sigh in relief. Meanwhile, Logan stands still, scrutinizing you until you gesture for him to enter. “Welcome to the smallest apartment in New York City. It's nothing fancy, but it’s got everything you need for a comfortable stay on a budget. Make yourself at home!”

Logan narrows his eyes, the tiniest smirk playing on his lips before stepping inside. Each of his movements seems to be premeditated as he tosses his jacket onto the couch, surveying the room. A portrait of when you were a kid, probably six or seven years old, catches his attention. He tilts his head, picking up the picture to examine it more closely, and then flashes you a lopsided grin. “How cute.”

“Well, I’ve changed a lot,” you take the picture from his hands, returning it to the shelf where he had gotten it from. 

“Well,” he echoes, mocking your tone, “your beauty certainly hasn’t.”

His eyes bore into you as you meet his gaze. What amazes you most is that he’s being completely honest. In a heartbeat, you look away, wondering what’s gotten into you. Usually, you’re not this awkward—you’ve learned how to take compliments over the years, knowing how to smile just right, to flutter your eyelashes. To blush and giggle in command. Those were the tools that helped you to survive countless first dates—your dearest aces up your sleeve.

There’s no use denying that they remained just that: first, failed dates. You hope you never have to go back to dating apps after this.

“Are you hungry? ‘Cause I’m starving,” you say, trying to walk away from him, although he’s faster, catching your hand in his. 

“Hey,” he urges you to make eye contact with him, his voice perplexingly soft. “Is everything okay?”

You nod so vigorously that you nearly strain your neck. “I’m fine, I swear. I just never get past this point.”

Inching closer, he presses his lips together for a split second, his brows furrowing in confusion. “You lost me there.”

“Guys who come into my apartment don’t tend to call back,” you admit, a flush creeping up your face, cheeks getting hotter. “I happen to believe it’s a curse, though I’ve kissed, like, a hundred toads so far and it still won’t break.”

“So y’think you’re gonna scare me off,” he raises an eyebrow, grinning. His rough fingers become gentle as they tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s sweet. Should be the other way around.”

Wow. You two are a match made in heaven.

As you detach yourself from his embrace and head to the kitchen, you decide to look for something edible in the fridge, finding different trays of food from days ago, none of which look appetizing or suitable for feeding the Tin Woodman standing behind you.

All of a sudden, the unmistakable metallic sound of Logan’s claws unsheathing rings in your ears, forcing you to spin around. The image that unfolds before you is peculiar, to say the least: he’s cornering your cat against the door.

Why is he about to fight a cat?

“Please don’t kill him?” you take a step in his direction and scoop the little ball of white fur into your arms. Logan stares at both of you, eyes squinted and brows knitted. “I’m sure he’s the cutest feline you’ve ever seen. Have mercy on him.”

“I didn’t know you had a cat.”

“Earnest wasn’t aware of your existence either,” you reply, scratching along the animal’s back. He purrs beside your neck, his yellowish eyes never leaving Logan’s. “Earnest, this is Logan. He has claws just like you.”

“Don’t you dare compare me to that,” Logan warns you, retracting his claws with a sigh. You can’t help but wonder if he ever feels tranquil, at peace. “Y’know, you’ve doomed him to bad fortune with that name. Is he at least toilet trained?”

“Are you hating on The Importance of Being Earnest?” you ask, expecting a retort, though apparently the play’s title doesn’t ring a bell for him. “Oscar Wilde?”

“Who do you think you’re talkin’ to, kid?”

Now’s your time to roll your eyes, setting the cat down and letting it run away. He likes to hide in the bathroom—don’t ask why, because not even you know the answer to that. You flick your gaze up back to Logan, placing your hands on your hips. “See, you gave him trust issues.”

“He’ll survive. Don’t they have seven lives?”

This is the perfect conversation to have with someone who just ate you out thirty minutes ago: how many lives do cats have. Jesus.

At some point, Logan flops onto the couch, stretching out. You shudder as you hear him crack his neck, the popping sound getting on your nerves. He pats the empty side of the sofa, spreading his thighs until he’s almost taking up all the space. “Come here.”

Putting aside all your thoughts, you accept the invitation. You sit down, motionless, and his arm grazes the cushion behind your head, pulling you closer to him. You rest your cheek on his chest, letting out a deep sigh, one that you’ve been holding in since you got to the apartment. Is it possible that he knows you craved this? This proximity, this kind of affection. To be held—it’s been your only wish for months. He drums his fingers on your shoulder blades, then starts rubbing your back ever so lightly.

Far from dozing off, you feel alive.

It’s hard not to lose track of time and space when you find yourself immersed in the warmth he offers, and that’s when you realize how deeply you’re falling for this man. “Logan?” the mere thought of asking him what’s been on your mind terrifies you. The last thing you want is to ruin things—or whatever it is that you have. He hums, a low, heavy sound in his throat, indicating you to continue. “I have a question.”

“Ask away.”

You lift your face from his chest and look him in the eye. The city’s still alive outside, with music and chatter sneaking in through the window. Everything seems to be perfect, and you wish you could stay like this—just staring at him as if he were a painting in a museum, and you the critic who can’t stop writing articles about its beauty.

Okay, that was… weirdly specific. 

Logan tries to hide his smile as you peck his lips repeatedly. For a moment, you almost forget what you were going to ask him in the first place. But then he’s ready to listen, and you a wave of nausea washes over you.

“I know that we came here to… engage in adult practices.”

“Fucking, you mean.”

“I didn’t want to be that straightforward, but yeah,” you say, shaking your head as to rearrange your thoughts. “Would you mind if we stayed like this?” to emphasize your point, you kick your shoes off and put your legs on top of his lap. He observes the whole sequence without daring to utter a word. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to try that too. I truly do. But… right now, all I want is to cuddle,” he’s still silent, making you even more nervous. “I’m sorry. Is that okay with you?”

His whole body engulfs yours, your cheek coming to rest once again in its original position. You can feel the rhythmic beating of his heart, each breath he takes, the air he exhales dampening your nape. Logan peppers your neck with chaste kisses before pressing his lips to your temple. His voice comes out strained, partially muffled by your hair. “Who do you take me for, huh?” he’s right there, beside your ear, fucking everywhere. There isn’t a single centimeter of your exposed skin that he isn’t touching, marking as his. You don’t give him an answer, in part because you’re unsure of what to say. He takes your silence as a cue to keep talking. “Let me take you to bed.”

“I can walk on my own.”

“I know,” he mutters, standing up with you in his arms, one arm beneath your knees and the other one under your shoulders. Logan’s not used to being this cautious, this patient with someone he’s known for less than two weeks. You see it in his eyes when he lets his guard down—something that has cracked, a shell that’s been broken.

As he places you gently on top of the covers, he lingers for a moment, crouching beside the bed and searching for your lowered gaze. His fingers are warm as he tilts your chin up. “I didn’t come here just to have sex with you. That was a possibility, of course—but it’s not the main reason why I’m here,” he rasps, words accompanied by the light brush of his lips against yours for a quick, brief kiss. “I care about you. A lot. I’m fine with whatever we do as long as I get to be close to you,” he grabs your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He then goes back to his usual bossy self, his demeanor changing. “And I don’t want to hear you apologizing for not wanting to have sex ever again. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now you’re making jokes?”

“I can’t have serious conversations,” you confess, observing the look of pure confusion on his face. “It’s true. I once spoke at a funeral and they cut me off forty seconds into my speech.”

Logan laughs at your sudden confession, his eyes crinkling at the edges. Rising to his feet, he begins to unbutton his flannel, pausing after the first few buttons are undone, waiting for your approval. “Do you want me to stay tonight?” 

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is what I want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

His words don’t hide any real threat—that you know.

You stifle your laughter, shedding your clothes. Instead of going to the bathroom to change, you toss your work clothes carelessly to the floor, opting for an old pair of pajamas that are the complete opposite of sexy. They surely have seen better days.

Logan’s eyes trail over you, taking his time to analyze the faded lettering on your wrinkled shirt. “Keep calm and eat pizza?” he reads aloud.

“Hey. I bought it when I was seventeen.”

“You could use a new wardrobe.”

“Well, what about you?” you tease, toying with his belt. “You’re gonna sleep like this in my bed?”

“Can’t wait for me to get my shirt off, huh?” he grins, that all-too-familiar smile on his lips.

You play along, folding your arms over your chest. “You think so highly of yourself.”

Without breaking eye contact, Logan unbuckles his jeans, letting them pool around his ankles. He then shrugs off his flannel, leaving him in just his briefs and vest. You scan his body, and the room suddenly feels a hundred degrees hotter, the air between you thickening. Logan notices your reaction, chuckling. “Don’t get too excited. This is all you’re getting today.”

“I think I’ve already heard that before.”

“Kid.”

You raise your hands in surrender, showing him your palms and mouthing ’sorry’. Approaching your bed, you pull back the covers and slip into it. When you see Logan still standing there, you frown. “Where are your manners? Come here. I’m very impatient.”

He grumbles something under his breath, but he doesn’t make you wait long. He proceeds to get under the sheets beside you, occupying that side of the bed that’s always been empty. As you both settle in, facing each other, you can’t help but giggle, your contagious laugh getting to him. “What now?”

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper, tracing the bridge of his nose with your index finger, a featherlight touch that has him closing his eyes. In the soft glow of the night, with the city’s distant sounds filtering in, he looks breathtaking. “I mean it.”

“Do you have an off switch?”

“I’m… not sure. Let’s find out tomorrow.”

“You need to sleep,” he pulls you onto his chest with firm but gentle hands. He intertwines his legs with yours, holding you close.

“Wait. I have a game to play.”

“It’s late.”

“Please?”

He sighs. “Okay.”

“We have to make confessions until we fall asleep.” 

“You just want to talk—that doesn’t even qualify as a game.”

“It does in this universe,” you reply, feeling his chest rumble with a chuckle as you settle more comfortably against him. “I’ll start: remember the first night you came to the bar?” he hums in acknowledgment. “It wasn’t Burger Night. We don’t serve food. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

He kisses the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. “I knew. You don’t have a kitchen down there, baby,” he falls silent, taking his time to come up with a confession of his own. “I have a fear of flying.”

“Really? You, of all people?”

“I wasn’t expecting to be judged.”

“Oh, don’t be such a crybaby,” you tease, burying your face further into the crook of his shoulder, inhaling his scent. He shivers slightly where your nose touches his skin. “I like you. It’s kind of scary, and I’m sure saying something like this probably goes against the rules of dating 101, but I do. I feel safe with you, like—like this is where I’m supposed to be.”

Almost as if the pieces of the puzzle finally fit together, you think to yourself, though the words stay unspoken.

You’ve come to learn that Logan’s not a man of many words—he’s more of the “show, don’t tell” kind of guy. So when he makes you lift your face, you’re not surprised by the way he kisses you: hungrily. Passionately, like a starved man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. A soft whimper gets lost somewhere in your throat as his tongue makes its way into your mouth, languidly stroking yours.

“We didn’t brush our teeth,” you whisper against his lips, laughing when he groans in exasperation.

“You love having the final say, don’t you?”

“I’m being serious, Logan. Cavities are a real issue for me.”

“You can always get new teeth.”

“But my morning breath—”

“It’ll stink anyway, and so will mine,” he responds, taking a deep breath and clearing his throat once he settles into his ideal sleep position. “Good night.”

“Night,” you murmur, nuzzling your cheek against his neck. Despite your efforts to ignore it, being cradled like this feels incredible. You can’t believe you went twenty-five years without it.

Just as you’re about to drift off, curiosity strikes. “Can you get tattoos?”

“Bub, I was actually falling asleep.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry,” you mumble, feeling a bit sheepish.

More silence.

“Logan?”

“Hmm?”

“What was the Great Depression like?”

“Fuck me,” he mutters, his voice gruff as he shifts lightly. “It was fine. Now go to sleep.”

And you do, but not for long. An abrupt coldness wakes you up, eyes wide open, feeling disoriented. It’s still pitch black outside, far quieter than when you first fell asleep. The clock on your nightstand reads it’s 3:17 am, though it feels like you’ve only been in bed for five minutes.

Then you see him—he’s twitching in his sleep on the far side of the bed, his painful grunts reaching your ears. Most of what he says is unintelligible, but there’s one word he keeps repeating over and over again without fail: “No.”

You don’t usually have nightmares. What’s the best way to wake someone from one? You’re still thinking when he starts mumbling again, his voice thick with distress, and now he’s throwing his arms in the air as if he were fighting off something—or someone—in his dreams.

Pressing your hands to his cheeks, you attempt to hold his face steady. He clenches his fists, his breath quickening the more he battles whatever’s haunting him. “Logan,” you whisper at first, subtly shaking his shoulders, but his eyebrows stay furrowed, deep in his nightmare. This time, you tighten your grip, fully sitting on top of him. “Logan. Logan! Wake up!”

Without warning, you’re on your back, pinned against the mattress. Logan’s straddling your hips, caging you in with his body, the weight of his adamantium skeleton pressing down. Your hands are trapped beneath his, and you watch as he clenches his jaw, teeth bared in a way that looks painful. His eyes are so dark and wild you barely recognize him, prominent veins throbbing in his neck with each labored breath he takes.

“Logan,” your own voice sounds unnatural, forced, as you do your best to bring him back to reality. “It’s me. You’re alright.”

That seems to get through him. Logan stares at you in disbelief, his eyes softening as they take in your terrified expression. He abruptly pulls away, retreating to the nearest wall. He’s gasping for air, slamming his eyes shut, his legs trembling. The only sound you can hear is his rapid breathing. You get up from the bed, taking a step in his direction, but you don’t manage to go any further since he stops you with a shout.

“Stay right there!” he’s growling, pointing his finger at you. “I’m serious. Don’t come any closer.”

“Logan…”

“Please, no!” his voice increases in pitch, not being able to meet your eyes. “Please. Just stay there.”

You comply, not wanting to upset him any further. Sitting back on your knees, you try to appear calm. A man so strong, capable of things you can’t even understand. A weapon turned against himself now stands before you, pushing you away as if his presence were poisonous. He slumps to the floor, the fabric of his vest soaked with sweat.

Once he’s fully conscious, you cautiously crawl toward him, watching his every move. On a random day, this might have been funny for both of you, but right now, there’s no room for laughter. Logan shakes his head, his shoulders tensing when you reach out to hug him, wrapping your arms around his broad frame. It takes him a couple of minutes, but eventually, his body sags against yours. For a while, neither of you speaks. You just thread your fingers through his hair, hoping the closeness will help soothe him. “Feeling better?” you whisper in the shell of his ear, and he pulls back to look you in the eye. You caress his cheek, his stubble rough against your skin. “Welcome back.”

“I’m sorry,” it’s the first thing he says, covering your hand with his. One by one, he kisses your knuckles, still shaking his head. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You had a nightmare—it’s not like you could control it.”

“But I could’ve hurt you,” he says, lowering his gaze to your wrists, where his fingerprints have left their mark. “God. I’m so sorry. I have to go.”

“Wait!” you grab his arm, your mouth setting in a hard line, stopping him from leaving. “Don’t run away from me, not now. Don’t push me away, Logan.”

“I could’ve done something much worse.”

“But you didn’t. It was a nightmare, baby. You didn’t know,” you kiss his forehead, hoping to talk some sense into him. “Please, stay. Let’s try to get some more sleep.”

“What if—”

You hold his face close to yours, your noses brushing. “You won’t hurt me.” 

This time, he lets you keep him close, the roles now reversed. You can see him fighting his exhaustion, not wanting to fall asleep. But the more you play with his hair, the harder it is for him to stay awake.

“I’m alright,” he says, seemingly reading your mind. It’s hard to tell whether he’s reassuring you or himself.

“I know,” you knead his shoulder, aiming to ease the tension knotted there. “You better sleep, or I might start rambling again.”

A faint, tired hum escapes him, at long last allowing his eyes to close. “I like hearing you talk,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your collarbone, drifting off soon after that.

You continue to hug him, feeling the weight of his body gradually relax against yours as his breathing evens out. The room is quiet, but your mind is far from it: a tornado of emotions swirls within you—concern, relief, love, and something else you can’t quite decipher. It isn’t until sleep finally claims you too that your brain stops going a hundred kilometers an hour.

The most surreal Sunday night of your whole life.

“So… when will you let me see Lolo again?”

Wade’s question makes you stop mid-pour, flicking your eyes between the drink and him. A few seats away, you hand a glass to Adam. Returning to where Wade’s currently sitting, you dry your hands on your apron. “Why are you even here?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, and he gives half a shrug. “Last time I checked, I wasn’t holding him against his will.”

“He’s been crashing at your place almost every night. You have your own methods, woman,” he raises one finger, then quickly adds another, pointing at your shirt. “Two methods, in fact.”

At that, you laugh mirthlessly, shaking your head with a grin. “I’m surprised anyone would willingly date you.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he retorts, taking a tentative sip of his beer and leaning back in his chair.

You glance at him while you wipe down the bar, looking for something to occupy your hands. “He’s not my boyfriend—yet.”

Wade mimics a punch in his chest, just where his heart’s supposed to be, though you’re starting to question whether he has one. His lips form a small, exaggerated pout. “That must hurt, doll. You got yourself into a situationship with a goddamn fossil. Good luck getting out of that.”

“It’s not that bad,” you say, rolling your eyes. “We’re cool this way. There’s absolutely no need for a title.”

“Okay, let’s rehearse that one more time because you look like you’re about to cry,” he lifts an eyebrow, drawing nearer. “You want the title, right?”

“I don’t.”

He props his chin on his hand, laughing at you. “Yes, you do. You can’t fool me.”

“I said I don’t.”

“I said I don’t,” he mocks you, kicking his legs and puckering his lips.

You can’t help but throw the towel down on the counter with irritation, giving in. “Okay! Of course, I want the fucking title.”

“There she is!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in a triumphant gesture. “Glad we’re speaking the truth now,” he tilts his head to the side, noticing your sudden silence. “Hey, drop the long face. I’m sure he’s been thinking about it. In order to understand Logan, I usually compare him to elders over ninety.”

“Why would you do that?” you ask, your tone a mix of mild annoyance and curiosity.

“Just think about it! Senior citizens didn’t date for too long in the past. They’d go straight from strangers to lovers. Take my grandparents, for example: in the span of one year, they met at a party, then got married, and had five kids. Do you really want to have a litter of Logan’s grumpy, hairy puppies?”

“Wade, that’s not even possible.”

“The point is,” he continues, finishing his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Logan’s rusty in this area, alright? I’d bet a thousand dollars he probably dated Cleopatra.”

“How did you pass History in high school?”

“I never graduated, but keep that between us,” he lifts his shoulders, shrugging. He spins the empty bottle, contemplating his next words. “You should tell him how you feel and what you want. That’s what works best for Vanessa and me. It’s easier that way—you can’t expect him to just guess.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “I just wish he’d realize it on his own.”

“Well, sometimes you need to give the other person a bit of guidance. I’m just laying out the basics of a relationship here. Did your parents hate each other or something?”

The irony of it all. “They got divorced when I was little.” 

“Oh, god,” Wade sighs, rubbing his temples before glancing at you. “Let me get this straight: Mommy and Daddy weren’t exactly the poster children for love. And you also happen to be a bartender. Anything else, honey? Please tell me you’re at least getting laid, because otherwise, I’m going to feel tremendously sorry for you and your mental health.”

Just then, you hear your name being called. Smiling at Wade, you mumble: “Saved by the bell.” Once you’re back from taking some orders, Wade jumps to his feet, coming around the counter to hug you.

“Dude, what’s the matter with you?” you ask, loosely returning the hug. 

“You’re a fucking survivor,” he whispers in your ear, genuinely sounding concerned. “I don’t know how you do it—you seem so put together. I would’ve lost it by now. A life without sex sounds awful.”

“Jesus, Wade! Get off!” you stretch your arm to punch him in the back, earning a groan from him. “Back to your seat, gentleman. I certainly don’t need your pity.”

“I’m a certified sexologist. Your secret’s safe with me,” he declares with a smirk, gesturing to his empty beer. “But first, I’m gonna need more of this tasty apple juice.”

“I hope you’ve got some cash on you,” you say, getting him another beer. “Why do I get the feeling Logan would kill us if he knew we’re talking about this?”

“Isn’t that what makes it even better?”

Swaying on your feet, you scrunch your nose, momentarily lost in thought. “He won’t let me touch him. I don’t know if it’s me that does something wrong. We do have our… moments, but he takes care of himself. And usually in the bathroom.”

Wade goes white in front of you. “How long has this been going on?”

“Over a month.”

“Oh. That’s bad, like, really bad.”

“Thanks! I’ll be sleeping on the highway tonight. You can always join me.”

“Doll, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed, alright?” he waves his hand dismissively, then sets his palms flat on the counter. “I know I’m starting to sound like a broken record, but talking to him is your best bet. This isn’t something you can just brush under the carpet. You’re like a goddamn radio—put it to good use.”

Just as you’re about to reply, you spot Logan entering the bar. You raise a hand in greeting, waving at him. He meets your gaze and smiles briefly, and so your eyes drift to Wade’s, shooting him a warning look. “If you keep this to yourself, I won’t charge you for today,” you mutter through gritted teeth, to which he answers by pretending to zip his mouth closed.

Logan takes a seat next to him, ignoring his presence. Instead, he focuses entirely on you. “Hey, kid.”

“Hey, homey.”

“Hiya, Wade,” Wade greets himself with a mock cheer, patting his own back, which makes you laugh. He turns to Logan and his whole face lights up. “I’m afraid to tell you I can’t sleep when you’re not around.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “Get your shit together.”

“You’re the worst roommate ever! Can’t believe you got yourself a girl and completely forgot about your bro,” Wade murmurs under his breath, just as his phone rings. “Thank God. I’ve got to go. My love nugget’s calling,” he announces, heading for the door. Before leaving, Wade blows the two of you a kiss. “I hate you both, but I also love you. Peace out, my friends!”

Logan and you exchange glances. “He’s a funny guy, isn’t he?”

“You could say that,” he replies, leaning in to kiss you on the lips. Logan intends to deepen the kiss, but you pull away after a couple of seconds. He frowns, clearly confused. “That’s how you greet me?”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a giggle. “My tip jar is practically empty, and I hate to say it, but it’s your fault.”

“Do you want me to say I’m sorry?”

“Oh, no.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m not,” he plants a quick kiss on your cheek, making you smile. “You have classes tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, at 9 am,” you almost grunt, not feeling too enthusiastic about it. “I’m gonna need your help. I can’t sleep through my alarm, okay? The professor said tomorrow’s class is an important one. Midterms are right around the corner, and I can’t take the liberty of failing them.”

“That won’t happen,” he assures you, and you believe him. “I can be of help, don’t worry. You won’t oversleep.”

Oh, Logan. Sweet, lying Logan.

Turns out you ended up oversleeping. Twenty-five years on this earth, and you still haven’t learned not to trust a man, even if his puppy-dog eyes silently beg you to do otherwise. The thing is—you love them. You love men. And you’re especially fond of the one currently sleeping in your bed.

The first rays of sunshine hit your face, waking you up. You attempt to raise a hand to shield your eyes, but moving any limbs feels like a Herculean task. A warm body is pressed against your back, one veiny arm draped over your stomach. Logan remains fast asleep behind you, his steady breathing succeeding in making you feel at ease. You reach back, running your fingers through his messy hair, and he grumbles in his sleep, instinctively pulling you closer.

What a nice, domestic morning. Yep, you’re getting used to this. And nope, you don’t regret it, not even in the slightest bit.

Though there must be a mistake, because you’re preeeeetty sure you had something important to do. 

Oh. You have classes. Had—past tense.

You reach for your nightstand, blindly groping for your phone. The charger is lying on the floor, the plastic of it all damaged. Perhaps Earnest had chewed on it while you were sleeping? You gently pry Logan’s arm off you, sitting up, and your bleary eyes land on something barely peeking out from under the bed.

It’s your fucking phone. The screen is completely shattered, with three distinct holes in the middle of it. Three holes, how strange! You can’t help but wonder who might have left them. Clutching your pillow, you whack Logan in the face with it. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!”

He groans, trying to take the pillow away from you. “What the fuck is wrong with you, kid?”

“I wish I had a UNO reverse card because I should be the one asking you that!” you jab your finger into his chest, showing him the ruined phone. “You broke my fucking phone!”

“What?” he asks, voice laden with sleep, still disoriented. He holds the phone, carefully scrutinizing it. “I think I don’t know how to hit the snooze button.”

“No shit, Sherlock. I believe you’ve made that very clear,” you huff, tossing the phone aside as you flop back onto the mattress. The clock on your nightstand says 11:05 am, and you cover your face with your hands, taking a deep breath. “Next time, when it goes off, just wake me up and I’ll do it.”

Logan settles beside you, resting his head on his forearm as he watches you. “I’m sorry, bub. I’ll get you a new one.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur, sighing. This is your free ticket to be a menace. “I should’ve known dinosaurs and phones would never get along. My bad, pal.”

You don’t even get to see his reaction because he starts tickling you, the room filling with your laughter. Squealing, you try to wriggle away, but his fingers dig into your ribs, expertly finding your most ticklish spots. Your giggles escalate into breathless laughter, your eyes squeezed shut as you desperately attempt to push him away. He’s relentless, chuckling when his own laughter bubbles up. 

“L-logan, stop!” you gasp between fits of laughter, aiming to grasp his hands.

“We dinosaurs love tickling people. Sorry, sweetheart,” he manhandles you until you’re perched on his lap, fisting the fabric of your (his) shirt. Leaning forward, he captures your mouth in a heated kiss. “I’m sorry about the phone,” he slurs the words against your cheek, his lips trailing down to your neck. You tell him that it’s okay, trying to find a comfortable position on top of him, and that’s when his thigh presses against your core, your eyes widening at the unexpected sensation. Logan’s no fool, noticing the way your breath hitches. “What’s wrong, baby? You woke up needy?”

“No, I just—” you trail off as he does it again, his strong thigh coming in contact with your clothed cunt. You search for leverage by placing your hands on his shoulders, glancing at him. “Logan.”

“I’m all ears,” he rests his back against the headboard, the tent in his boxers impossible to ignore. “You want to get off on my thigh,” he states with certainty. It’s not a question—it’s a full-on statement. He knows what you want, what you crave. “Come on then. Grind against it.”

You do as he says, not caring to think twice. You start moving, rubbing your wet pussy against his muscular thigh. The friction sends jolts of pleasure through you, and soon, you’re whimpering his name, your hands trailing down his abs. Why hadn’t you tried this before? It feels fucking amazing.

From his position, Logan stares at you, his lips slightly parted, eyes clouded with lust. Your arousal drenches your panties, soaking through them, the fabric clinging to his coarse leg hair. He glances down at the mess you’re making, his grin widening as he takes in the sight. “Goddamn, woman. I’m gonna make you clean it off, I swear to God.”

“Need your help,” you whisper, lowering your head, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. The coil tightening inside you is almost unbearable. A kiss is what you lean in for, desperate for more, though Logan appears to have other plans. He fists your hair, pulling at your nape and yanking your head back. The roughness of the movement pulls a moan from your lips, your mouth parched like a desert. 

“Eyes up here, okay? You look at me when I make you come,” his raspy voice makes you feel tingly, each word sending shivers down your spine. His hands fiercely grab the flesh of your hips, guiding you, helping you grind harder against his thigh. You think you’re on the verge of drooling when you catch the way his abdomen flexes, working to push you toward that long-awaited release. “That’s it, there you go,” he rasps, relishing the sounds he’s eliciting from you, each of your gasps feeding his desire.

Time slows as the warmth in your belly finally erupts, your eyes fighting to stay open through the aftershocks of your orgasm. No actual words leave your mouth, just a string of whines and moans, some carrying Logan’s name. He swallows every single sound you make, everything you give him, grunting as your legs tremble and shake atop him.

He lets you collapse onto your back, your breathing gradually evening out. “I think I saw fireworks behind my lids,” you confess, your mouth dry, expecting Logan to flop onto the mattress beside you. But he doesn’t. Through your blurry vision, you contemplate as he positions himself between your parted legs, getting dangerously close to your cunt. “Logan, what are you— Oh, fuck,” you moan mid-sentence when you feel him pulling your panties aside to lick a slow strip through your folds, collecting your arousal. He points his tongue, dipping it into your entrance, and you wince, squirming. “Santa Claus, is that you?”

Logan grins against you, closing his mouth around clit for a moment. He then shifts until he’s eye-to-eye with you, two of his fingers sliding into you in one smooth motion. “Give me another one,” he murmurs, his other hand slipping under your shirt to play with your nipples, pinching them. 

You never imagined two fingers could bring such intense pleasure. You just lie there, taking it like a good girl, as Logan sometimes call you. “Please, I need you,” you cry out, your fingernails scraping against his torso.

“I know, darlin’. I’m right here,” he rasps against your temple, moving his fingers in and out of you with more enthusiasm. But what he doesn’t understand is that you need all of him. Your hands itch to touch him, to feel the weight of his cock. The corners of his mouth turn up as he watches you struggle to find words. “Wish you could see yourself like this. Such a pretty girl, so gorgeous like this,” his fingers keep grazing that bundle of joy deep inside you, and he goes in for a kiss, the sour taste of your slick invading your taste buds. “Tightest pussy I’ve ever had. Need to stretch you real good before fucking you with my cock.”

Bingo! That last sentence does it for you, and you come for the second time in the morning, your cunt clenching and spasming around his fingers. You hide your face in his neck, mouthing at his Adam’s apple. He hasn’t trimmed his beard in days, and it shows because you can now feel a burning sensation on the soft skin of your inner thighs.

“You’re allowed to break all my phones from now on,” you suggest, only to hear Logan’s laughter in your ear. He snakes a hand through your hair, shoving it back away from your face. You feel him kiss your sweaty forehead, and as you press yourself closer to his body, something hard nudges your hipbone.

Absentmindedly, you trace the waistband of his boxers with your index finger, your eyes snapping to his face. Logan freezes on the spot, and it’s almost as if he’s stopped breathing. Without a word, he rises from the bed, his movements sudden and almost mechanical. You watch him, puzzled, as he heads toward the bathroom, the intimacy of just moments ago being abruptly replaced by a dreadful silence.

“Logan, is everything okay? Do you need something?” you ask and he pauses at the bathroom door, his back to you. For a brief second, you think he might actually open up, but when he turns around, his expression is neutral, masking whatever thoughts are running through his mind. At last, he flashes you a quick smile.

“I’m fine,” he says, his tone gentle but distant. “Just gonna take a shower. Then we can have breakfast together, right?”

You nod, his words easing the growing sense of frustration gnawing at you. He disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of running water soon follows. You sink back into the bed, staring up at the ceiling. You take your pillow and bury your face in it, letting out a muffled groan. There’s something he isn't telling you, something hidden deep beneath his usual gruff exterior. Although you try to piece together the fragments of his behavior, they don’t quite fit.

The minutes drag on, and the sound of the shower becomes a distant, constant background noise. You close your eyes, visualizing your happy place, but your thoughts keep spiraling. All you can do is wait—wait for him to come back and act as if nothing had happened.

Logan’s right there, just a few feet away—yet in moments like these, he feels miles apart. It’s one of those days in which, no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to bridge that distance. 

It had all started with you asking Logan “Have you ever watched (500) Days of Summer?”

Of course, he had refused to watch the movie at first, and of course, you had threatened him with phoning Wade to let him know that Logan wanted to have a sleepover. That had done the trick.

You had asked for a day off at the bar, and surprisingly, your boss hadn’t objected. That turn of events led to this moment: sprawled out on the couch with Logan, the two of you watching the final minutes of your favorite film. Logan takes a long drag of his cigar, eyes trained intently on the screen. He’s only wearing sweatpants, which had caused your attention to drift from the plot a few times. The fact that you managed to sit through the entire movie without needing to pause it makes you feel particularly invincible.

Hey.

You again.

Yeah. I, uh, was just wondering if maybe after this, if, um, you— you want to get some coffee or something.

Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sort of supposed to meet someone after this.

Okay.

“That poor fella,” Logan murmurs, taking a slow sip of his beer. You look up at him from where your head rests on his lap, a contented smile playing on your lips. His fingers absently stroke your hair.

“Just wait,” you say, pointing to the screen of your laptop.

Sure.

What’s that?

Why not?

Okay. Well, then I’ll just, uh— I’ll wait for you.

We— we’ll figure it out.

We’ll figure it out.

“They’ll figure it out!” you exclaim, but Logan quickly shushes you, his attention unwavering.

My name’s Tom.

Nice to meet you. I’m Autumn.

When the movie comes to an end, you’re met with Joseph Gordon-Levitt breaking the fourth wall, staring straight at the audience as if he knows he’s about to get himself into a mess with another girl named after a season. You sit up, your eyes eagerly searching for Logan’s. “So? Did you like it? I’ve watched it seven times now. Can’t understand how it gets better each time.”

Logan closes his mouth around his cigar, inhaling deeply before answering. “Yeah, it was pretty good,” he says, his hand finding your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Summer’s a bitch, though.”

“I respectfully disagree,” you tell him, grabbing his beer and giving it a try, only to grimace at the taste. Shuddering, you set it back down. “Why don’t you like her character?”

“Well, for starters, she did Tom dirty. Played with him like he was a damn rag doll.”

You raise an eyebrow, hugging a cushion closer to your chest as you lean back into the couch. “He knew from the beginning she didn’t want to be his girlfriend. Summer was clear—Tom just though he was smart enough to change her mind.”

“They acted like boyfriend and girlfriend the whole movie,” he scorns, placing his cigar down into the ashtray with a bit more force than necessary.

Is your first argument going to be over a movie? Exciting.

“Logan, they weren’t even official.”

“But she made it seem like they were,” he insists, the frustration in his voice growing.

“They were in a situationship—the perfect example, really. That’s not the same as being a couple.”

His gaze dips to the floor, brows knitted in a deep frown. “I think you’re relying on the technicality that they never used those titles. I mean, they did everything together. Isn’t that what normal couples do?”

Lord have mercy.

“Logan, who am I to you?” you inquire, crossing your arms over your chest.

He hesitates, narrowing his eyes, the question clearly catching him off guard. “You are—what? I don’t understand. Is this some kind of mind game you’re playing?”

“It’s actually very simple: if someone were to ask you about me, what would you say? Am I a friend? A bartender?” you inch forward, holding your breath, your tone faltering slightly. Meanwhile, Logan’s hands tighten into fists at his sides. “A fling? Your girlfriend? You complain so much about Summer, yet you can’t even name what we have.”

The living room falls into a heavy silence. Logan blinks slowly, his forehead creasing as he processes your words. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because these are the kinds of conversations we need to have. I understand you don’t want to have them, but I do.”

“Fine. Then tell me what it is that you want,” he asks, his mouth snapping shut when he sees you snorting in response.

“I don’t— I don’t know! To know how you feel, if possible?” you stand up from the couch, taking the cushion with you. You grind your jaw, gnawing on your bottom lip. “Why is it that every time I try to touch you, you push me away?”

He scrunches up his face, mirroring your movements and rising from his seat. “Bub, can we please talk about this tomorrow—”

“No! You don’t get to make all the choices, that’s not fair. Deciphering you isn’t easy, Logan. I’m not asking you to tell me everything you’ve been through. I just wish I could know how you feel about me. I can’t stand in front of you and pretend I don’t mind where this is going, because I’m more than sure I’m falling in love with you. “

“You can’t. You shouldn’t,” he says, his expression hardening. He turns his back to you, running his hands over his face in frustration before heading to the kitchen.

“Well, what were you expecting?” you follow him into the kitchen, finding Earnest on top of the fridge, beholding the scene with a curious gaze. “You basically moved in here, gave me a free trial of what life with you might be like, and now you have the audacity to appear surprised when I tell you I’ve caught feelings?” salty tears start rolling down your cheeks, and you spread your arms wide in exasperation. “Oh, but you’re right. How could I’ve been this stupid, to fall for the damned Wolverine!” you laugh bitterly, expecting him to break eye contact, but he doesn’t. “You think you’re so bad, so broken. Guess what: you’re not, because I love you, and I couldn’t care less about your past. You may think you’re unlovable, but you’re not, you hear me?”

For a heartbeat, the world seems to pause. And so he says:

“You are the most exasperating person I know.”

“Wow. Thank you so much!” you retort, your voice dripping with sarcasm. You run a hand through your hair, infuriated. “That makes me feel better!”

“Let me do the talking now,” he says, taking long strides toward you, and the proximity makes you lower your head. “You’re not getting the final say today. Just because I’m not over-sharing my feelings all the time doesn’t mean I don’t have them! In fact, I do. I may not express them openly, but they exist. And I wish you could see inside my head! You’d be delighted at how much time I spend thinking about you,” you cackle at his words, rolling your eyes. His fingers grip your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “There hasn’t been a single moment since the day we met that I have stopped wanting you. Your voice is like a goddamn radio that, no matter what I do, I can’t turn off. It’s like I’m infected by you, and I hate it!” his eyes burn with a mix of anger and affectionpur, his pursed lips softening as he continues. “No good ever comes from caring this much about someone. So excuse me for being scared of ruining the only good thing that’s happened to me in years!”

You hit him with the cushion—not with enough force to make him hurt, but enough to make a point.

“Drop it, kid.”

“I’m—” you hit him again, “not—” and again, “stupid. I know what I’m getting myself into,” as you attempt to raise the cushion once more, Logan takes it from your hands, throwing it on the counter. Your shoulders sag, trying to find the strength to keep going. “And I know for a fact,” you add, glancing at his conflicted eyes, “that the easiest thing for me would be to walk away from you, but I can’t. It’s too fucking late.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do! These are my feelings, okay? Mine, not yours. You don’t have the right to decide who I love and who I don’t.”

Logan’s eyes squint, scanning your face. “You’re… obnoxious.”

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

“And I—I love you,” he confesses, his nostrils flaring with emotion. Opening your mouth to say something, you close it moments later, your gaze locked on his. “You could take what you said, pretend as if I didn’t exist, and I wouldn’t say a thing, y’understand? I would move cities if you asked me, because I love you that fucking much, and I want you to be happy.”

You reach for his hand, briefly intertwining your fingers with his. Looking at him through your eyelashes, you rub your fingers over his stubble. “And what if my happiness comes from being with you?”

Logan lets out a harsh breath, his arm curling around your waist, pressing his chest to yours. “I can’t promise I’ll be the perfect boyfriend. I’ll probably makeplenty of mistakes.”

“Fine with me.”

“And you’ll be mad at me. A lot.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure it’s mutual.”

Both of you laugh then, and you’re taken aback when he brushes his nose against your cheek, silently seeking permission to kiss you. His lips move hungrily against yours, trailing his hands down your spine, pulling you closer. He breaks the kiss and laughs at your eagerness when you chase after his mouth. You end up perched on his lap as he settles into one of your kitchen chairs. Logan stares into your eyes, his gaze drifting lower. “I won’t push you away this time. Not anymore.”

That’s your cue to finally do what you’ve been yearning for weeks. You fall to your knees in front of him, shaky fingers that graze the hairs on his happy trail. The bulge in his sweatpants is close to your face, and your mouth waters at the thought of having him between your lips. “Can I?” you ask, your voice a touch higher. 

He draws a long breath, tilting his head slightly. “You may, baby.”

You pull at his sweatpants and boxers, sliding them down his legs just enough to free his hard cock. As you take a look at it, you find yourself at a loss for words, the sight overwhelming. Nothing could’ve prepared you for the first taste of his precum as you envelop his head between your lips, that musky scent of his hitting you.

A whimper escapes you, and Logan hisses when you run your tongue along the slit, his hands gripping the back of your neck tightly. “Fuck, darlin’. Thought about your mouth so many times, but never imagined it’d feel this good,” he cants his hips up, causing your movements to stutter. “You can take a bit more, can’t you?” his question ends with a guttural grunt, his fingers tightening on your hair. “Gotta show me how much you want this.”

Logan takes all that you give him. You lower your head further, taking in another inch of him. Sex’s supposed to feel good, but this? It feels even greater. And he’s not even inside you yet, you hear a voice murmur in your head. The hand on your nape encourages you to move faster, and you sneak a hand between your bodies, grasping him by the base. You swallow around him, eyes fluttering open when he tugs sharply at your hair..

“Thaaaat’s it, honey. Just like that, want you to choke on it,” he grumbles, running his mouth just the way you like. The tip of his cock nudges the back of your throat and tears fill your eyes. You pull away to catch your breath, still stroking him as you regain composure. Logan’s gaze is intense, and he stares into your soul, his chest heaving. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Dick got your tongue?”

You’ll definitely get back to that joke later.

“Will you—can you—”

“Come on, beautiful. I don’t have all day.”

God, you love it when he’s mean.

“Fuck my throat,” you plead, your voice barely above a whisper.

A smile dangles on the corner of his lips. “We both know you can be nicer.”

The fucker makes your pulse race. “Can you fuck my throat?” you ask again, more insistently. “Please.”

He guides himself into your mouth, smirking as he watches how your eyes roll back in pleasure. “How polite of you to say please. Some good manners you’ve got.”

You whimper around him, your body responding to the rhythm he sets, fully immersed in the intensity of the moment. And for a while, you drift away, losing your sanity with each thrust of his hips, every tug at your hair. It’s almost impossible not to compare him to your past hookups. You try to recall at least a single instance when another man made you feel this way, but no memory surfaces.

Time seems to stretch and warp. You don’t really know when it happens—he pulls you off his cock, cradling your face, examining you. “You fucking love that, don’t you?” he asks with that sweet, syrupy voice, brushing away your tears. There’s no room left for embarrassment, so you nod, closing your mouth around his thumb. Defeated, Logan shakes his head, pressing his finger against your tongue. “I was planning on coming on your mouth, but I think I’ve got a better idea.”

In the blink of an eye, you’re in your bedroom. Not even a metaphor—he picks you up and basically runs to your room, closing the door behind him. You prop yourself on your forearms, trying to process what’s about to happen. Logan, already naked, climbs onto the bed after you, He kisses you slowly, tracing the curves of your body. “You still want this?”

“I do. I’m just… nervous, that’s all,” you admit, flashing him a quick smile. “It’s been two years of celibacy for me. Will it fit?” you ask, glancing down at his cock, and Logan stares at you in confusion. “Also, how many girlfriends have you had? Just curious.”

“I don’t think this is the time for that conversation.”

“You’re right,” you agree, lying back on the mattress, bracing yourself for what’s to come. “Were they pretty?”

“Bub.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up,” he replies with a smirk. “Focus on me, okay?”

Despite your tries to crack jokes at the worst possible moment, things escalate pretty quickly. Logan’s got three fingers inside you, pumping them in and out. He’s already made you come once with his mouth—to get you more relaxed, he had said. Wanting sounds slip past your lips as he doesn’t miss the chance to hit that spot that makes you squeeze your legs together. The tip of his nose drags long lines up and down the skin of your neck, mouthing at your jaw.

“I’m ready,” you mumble after some minutes, reaching for his cock and stroking him. “Let’s break the bed.”

“You’re lucky you’re this cute,” he says, catching your lips in a kiss. “Condom?”

“Negative, Sergeant.”

“You don’t have any?”

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “I don’t want you to use one.”

The way his gaze darkens doesn’t go unnoticed by you. His hand guides your face toward his cock. “Get me wet,” he commands, and you oblige, sucking him into your mouth. You hum around him, unable to contain yourself, and you hear Logan chuckling above you. “Can’t believe this is what it takes for you to shut up. Gotta keep your mouth full all the time.”

Once he’s satisfied with the way you’ve slicked him, he positions himself over you, caging you between his arms. Logan pins you down with his body, his hot breath mingling with yours. When you stare into his eyes, all you see is pure love, and your heart swells with affection. “Will you fuck the bad jokes out of me?”

Logan laughs, rubbing his length along your folds, grazing your clit for a fleeting second. “I sure as hell will,” he assures you, lining himself up with your wet entrance. He looks into your eyes for approval. “Ready?”

“I was born rea— Fuck!” you nearly scream as his head breaches you, your eyes squeezing shut. Turns out his fingers weren’t enough. “Fucking mutant dick.”

“You’ll love it, believe me,” he husks next to your ear. His arms shake where they rest on each side of your head, seemingly as affected as you are. Logan pulls out, and then fucks into you with a little more force.  “How are you still so tight? You’re killin’ me here.”

“I’ve got no idea, but you feel—amazing,” you gasp, latching onto his back, holding him close to you. His thrusts gain strength, and suddenly he’s bottoming inside you. “Oh, god. I can feel you in my stomach.”

“I know, baby, I know. Can feel it too,” he curls one of his hands around your throat, keeping you in place. From his position, he can watch the way your face contorts in pleasure. Lowering his head to envelop one of your nipples between his lips, he sucks hard. “You were desperate enough to get on your knees in the damn kitchen. You’ll be good now too, am I right?”

“Yes. Yes. I can be good,” you pant, eyes wide and pleading. “Anything you want. Just don’t stop.”

“I’m not stoppin’, princess. Don’t worry,” his mouth curves into a wicked grin as he drives into you again, this time even deeper. His hand on your throat tightens slightly, just enough to make you feel the pressure, grounding you in the moment. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs against your chest, his voice laden with need. 

Each thrust has you gasping, your body arching off the bed to meet his. Logan’s grip on your neck loosens as his hand slides down to grasp your hip. He squeezes your tender flesh, pulling you harder against him, as if he can’t get close enough. The bed creaks under the intensity, but you barely notice, too far lost in the rhythm of his movements.

“You’re perfect, all I’ve ever wanted,” he slips his free hand between your bodies to find your clit, and the moment his fingers make contact with it, you can’t help but whine. “So fuckin’ perfect,” you hear him repeat, more to himself than to you, his voice stranded as he tries to hold himself back, letting you chase your own release first.

The pressure inside you builds up, tightening with every skilled flick of his fingers. You’re sure you must look like a mess, sweaty and sticky, though the way he looks at you makes you forget everything else. “Logan, I’m—” you croak, the wind being knocked out of your lungs with each relentless thrust. “I think I’m gonna come.”

He picks up speed, snapping his hips faster. “I’ve got you, let go for me. I’ll take care of you, baby, I swear,” his pace becomes erratic, digging his fingers into the softness of your thighs as the headboard keeps slamming against the wall. Your body obeys him, a shuddering release tearing through you, moaning Logan’s name and gripping him like a vice. “That’s it, fuck, that’s it,” he doesn’t stop, driving you through your orgasm. His eyes snap to your face, contemplating how wrecked you look. “Tell me where—please, sweetheart.”

“Inside.”

“What?”

“I said inside. Come inside me, Logan.”

He’s not strong enough to deny you such a thing. Logan buries himself to the hilt, groaning your name as his cock twitches and paints your walls with his thick seed. Beside your head, his claws unsheate, tearing into the pillow. He ruts against you, his body trembling and writhing against yours, already apologizing for the pillow incident while pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “Sorry, I’m sorry. That hasn’t happened in a while.”

When Logan collapses beside you, he pulls you into his arms, kissing you eagerly. You return the kiss, wincing as you feel a bit of his cum slip out of you, rolling down your thighs. He stares at your glistening cunt without an ounce of remorse, and you close your legs. “That’s private.”

“It wasn’t very private a minute ago.”

“Logan?”

“Tell me, bub.”

“Knock, knock.”

He must truly love you, because he plays along: “Who’s there?”

“Ice cream.”

“Ice cream who?”

“Ice cream for you all night long.”

“Guess I didn’t succeed in fuckin’ the bad jokes out of you,” he teases softly, letting his head fall back on the bed. “But it’s fine. I’ll just have to keep tryin’.”

This is the story of how you end up dating a man who’s two hundred years old. But it’s also the story of how that same man learns to let his guard down and open his heart. So, remember this, kids: the sky’s the limit, especially when it comes to love—and yes, even when it involves dating mutants.

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[gutsby]

Trashed

Pairing: Trailer Park!Joel x Reader

Summary: You fuck Joel in his filthy double-wide.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Perv!Joel. Dirty!Joel. Stink kink (don’t look at me). Age gap. Breeding kink. Daddy kink. Mention of creampie. Cockroach cameo.

Word count: 1.0k

This felt good.

The smell, on the other hand, was unbearable.

Joel Miller hadn’t cracked a window in his trailer since 1986. When he smoked, he smoked inside and never thought twice about how it might smell to visitors.

To be fair, he didn’t have folks over all that often.

You were the exception, not the rule. Your visits typically lasted no more than fifteen minutes and ended with two shaky legs wobbling down his front steps and a load of his cum leaking out from in between them. Whenever you went to see your neighbor, you left your nose—and your dignity—at the door, and you didn’t ask questions.

The mold overhead was getting hard to ignore, though.

You lay flat on your back on a mattress situated in the center of Joel’s room. On the floor. There was no decor, save for one Nickelback poster and a pyramid of empty Zyn containers stacked in the corner. The summer heat was killing you both, so you’d kicked off the sheets and left the bed completely bare. You’d pretended not to see stains of Mountain Dew and beer before stripping down.

“This pussy’s so fuckin’ tight,” Joel panted in your ear.

His cock was wet and slippery with your shared fluids, making obscene noises each time that he drove home. You loved it and hated it—you couldn’t help but admire the way a sheen of sweat glistened on his chest and made the grey hairs dusting his pecs look even thicker; you weren’t crazy about the odor emanating from his pits but couldn’t deny that that scent was distinctly him.

Joel grossed you out and drove you nuts, made you insane with desire and sometimes disgust. He pushed so deep inside your needy cunt you sometimes swore you could’ve felt him on your tongue. He tasted like bourbon and tobacco, no matter what time of day it was. He kissed sloppily but surprisingly well, and he had a filthy fucking mouth that he knew exactly how to use on you.

Sometimes, the liquor made it say stupid things.

“Gonna fill you up, honey.” His voice was hoarse.

Joel’s hips were pummeling your own at a breakneck pace. His balls were slapping your ass, repeatedly, and drawing whimpers out of your throat with every thrust. Freak that he was, he let his tongue dart past his lips, and he licked into your mouth. He pushed the thick, wet muscle in without concern and let you taste him as he fucked you into his filthy mattress. He loved doing it.

He loved showing you in any way that you were his.

“Bet you’d look pretty with my baby on your hip.”

Wait—what?

Your eyes widened, though you said nothing. Your climax was teetering far too close now to say a word, and your shock silenced you. For a second, you only winced.

“Don’t even…joke about that, Miller,” you hissed.

“I ain’t jokin’. I’d make you a mama in a heartbeat.”

Of course, leave it to you to fuck the one freak-nasty hillbilly with a breeding kink. The tip of his leaking cock kissed your cervix, and inwardly, you hoped your IUD was ready to take a bullet—or several. Then you blinked, breathed a cloud of Joel’s heady scent, and, fuck.

He would make one disgustingly cute trailer park papa.

Ew, what the fuck? You chided yourself immediately.

Joel was meant to be a fuckbuddy, not a father.

You were in college, with dreams of leaving this backwater town as soon as possible, and he hadn’t strayed more than twenty miles from this place in twenty-five years, at least. He was also old enough to be your father. Your ankles curled around the backs of Joel’s calves, and your heels dug even deeper into the muscle.

Your orgasm was cresting now. Stars flitted behind your eyes, and the coil in your stomach was tightening like it never had before. You inhaled again and groaned—why did he have to be so old? Why were you picturing a life where you gladly had his kids and spent the rest of your days in Balmaceda’s Trailer Park? Was that your future?

“Let me fuck this pussy full of cum and knock you up.”

Joel grunted. You whined. Your eyes rolled back momentarily, and your fingers threaded tightly through the locks of hair at the nape of his neck. You loathed his mullet, but you still used it for leverage as your climax prepared to tear through your system. Joel’s cock plunged in and out, again and again, rutting into your body like an animal in heat, and he murmured it again—‘I’m gonna make you a mama, just you wait, honey’—and then you couldn’t deny the feeling. You were agreeing with him. Nodding your head with a fucked out look in your eyes and letting him shove his throbbing dick in you, give you all the pleasure you craved, you grinned through all your good sense. You let him do it.

“Give me a baby, Joel,” you whimpered.

Joel fucked in deeper and grit his teeth.

“Yeah, baby? You wanna have my baby?”

This was the dumbest thing you’d ever done. Well, second to ever laying down on this bare, beer-stained mattress in the first place. But you nodded at him again.

“Cum inside me, daddy, fuck.”

And just as you were both about to let go and give in to pleasure completely, your body tensed. Not with ecstasy, it seemed, but something else. You had a sense there was a presence by your side, and soon enough, it—

“JOEL!!”

You weren’t sure why you screamed his name, but it felt like the right thing to do in the moment. You also weren’t thinking. You just saw a big, brown cockroach skitter over the bed and crawl up your leg, and you nearly tore a hole in your throat from how loudly you screamed. Joel jumped up, felt another dart across his foot, and yelled, ‘FUCK!’ He cursed two more times before tripping backwards, off the mattress, and fell on his ass.

You would’ve laughed if this wasn’t so gross.

“Joel, you need to clean this fucking trailer!”

[burningembers91]

Seeking Attention - Hong Woo-Jin x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Hong Woo-Jin has a thing for the new Pilates instructor at the gym. But as someone who’s been left broken hearted one too many times, you’re going to make the cocky boxer work for your attention.

Hong Woo-Jin had always been a cocky bastard. He’d always been confident, and loud, the life and soul of the party. He constantly went out of his way to make people laugh, and it was forever getting him in trouble. Throughout school he’d been in detention more times than he could count, and as an adult his brash attitude had gotten him into hot water many times. But Woo-Jin couldn’t help it; he felt like he needed to be loud; being loud was better than being quiet and alone with his thoughts.

He’d always struggled with self-worth, never quite feeling good enough for the people around him. No matter what he did, he was a constant source of disappointment to his father. Growing up, he’d started to act out as a way of getting attention from the man he looked up to most. He knew it wasn’t clever, knew the plan was doomed to fail, but he was so desperate for acknowledgment from his father, no matter how much trouble he had to get in to receive it. The loudmouth troublemaker persona had stuck with him, and Woo-Jin didn’t know how to snap out of it. Every time he felt himself falter, every time he felt his self-worth slip, he’d crack a joke and pull some crazy stunt to convince himself he was doing just fine.

But sometimes the only thing that could halt the voice in his head was boxing. He’d started boxing as a child, another way he desperately sought the affection of his father. He had a natural talent, and although it still wasn’t enough to please the man who had raised him, Woo-Jin was hooked. Every spare second he had was spent at the gym, honing and crafting his skills. He won every fight, had medals and trophies adoring his walls and shelving, but it still wasn’t enough for his dad. He craved love and affection, but had never quite managed to find it.

He’d never had a problem with women, always able to get a date, but never quite able to get them to stick around. Woo-Jin told himself he was happy to live life as a bachelor, but his nights were so lonely.

When you joined as instructor at the Pilates studio across the hall from his boxing gym, Woo-Jin was determined to win you over. But you were unlike anyone he’d met before. You didn’t fall for his cheesy chat up lines, didn’t giggle at his jokes. You’d roll your eyes and sigh, and try your best to hide your smile.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Woo-Jin, but you’d been burned one too many times, and you didn’t want to open yourself up to the inevitable heartbreak you knew would come.

Your classes coincided with his training, and the two of you interacted most days. You were funny, smart, witty and beautiful, and Woo-Jin so badly wanted the chance to make you happy. But you were a tough nut to crack, the one woman who seemed able to resist his charm. He wondered if he was losing his touch.

“What do you reckons tougher?” He asked one day, in a last ditch attempt to impress you. “Boxing, or Pilates?”

You rolled your eyes, knowing exactly what he was doing. “Pilates. Definitely Pilates.”

“Oh yeah?” Woo-Jin took a swig of his water bottle, his bare chest and torso glistening with sweat. You purposely avoided looking, not willing to admit to yourself how good he looked.

“Do you think I’d be any good?” He smiled, flexing his biceps.

“Well, if you sign up for my class and pay the entry fee, we’ll see,” you winked, before heading outside to your car.

You came in the next day to find Woo-Jin’s name on your next class sign up sheet, the entry fee pushed under the studio door. This man was unrelenting, but you felt your stomach flip.

If Woo-Jin was so desperate to impress you, you’d make him work for it.

[hearts4werka]

NNN day 13 | You Can’t Save Me

“I thought I could do it without dragging you deeper. Shit, I was wrong.”

summary: Matt was a gang member and you knew the life as one or alongside one was a constant gamble for your life, never knowing what you’ll roll nor what consequences you will have to face. Today you didn’t know you would be facing one of them out of Matthew’s not informing you that they owed money to the violent rival gang, not thinking as an outcome I’ll have to face the barrier between life or death, will you somehow survive or face the consequences and give into the dark feeling of death?

warnings: ANGST, painful death, hospital setting, gang membership, heavy language, arguing, between life or death, swearing, mentions of B&E as well as fighting, sensitive topics that could trigger some readers & viewers advisory is supervised! English isn’t my first language so these can suck ass

authors note: lately I haven’t rlly been feeling the best and have got into some issues but I still found the courage to write something for yall for NNN and the intro post is gonna be out later tonight and I just gotta finish up some stuff and I’ll post it, luv y’all sm and hope y’all enjoy this one.

no nut november | masterlist | guestlist

The fluorescent lights above flickered inconsistently, a cruel reminder of the life I was currently losing the grasp over. The sterile scent of disinfection filled the air, mixing with the lingering smell of regret. I lay sprawled on the hospital bed, tubes snaking from my body and monitoring the slow and steady decline of my life. The beeping machines around me marked time I had left and even that was slowly slipping away from my grasp of control, each note a reminder of the moments fading away. My heart was still pounding, but I could feel its rhythm weakening.

Matt stood at the foot of the bed, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket with his shoulders hunched as if he were carrying the weight of the whole fucking world. His usually cocky demeanor was stripped bare from him leaving only a vulnerable kid who never actually grew up. Tears streamed down his face while cutting tracks through the sweat that adores his skin like a cruel battle map. “Look, I’m really fucking sorry, okay?” His voice cracked like a twig as he took a step closer, desperate to build a bridge between the gap in between us. “I never thought they’d come for you! I swear, I thought I could handle it!”

My mouth felt dry, each breath a labored struggle to grasp any control over my life. “Handle what, Matt?” I bite back, an involuntary bitterness flowing through the veins within my body. “You think you can just barge into my life, drag me into whatever shit you’re tangled in and then act surprised when it bites us in the ass You’re a goddamn idiot!” “I know!” he shouted, fists clenching and unclenching as if trying to beat the regret from his body. “I know, and I’d give anything to take it back. But I was too fucking proud, too stupid to admit we owed those bastards money! I didn’t think they’d get violent, you know? I thought they’d just scare us or shake us down but then they—”

“They busted through the door like a goddamn SWAT team!” I stated, choking on anger and pain I was feeling all at the same time. “You didn’t think they’d want blood? You dragged me into a fucking war, Matt, and now I’m stuck here.” “I didn’t mean for this to happen!” His voice broke like an old doll and he stepped closer to my slowly dying body. “I thought… I thought I could keep you safe. I thought—” His words faded into a heavy silence instead filled with the beeps of machines surrounding us and the muffled sounds of hospital life outside. I could see the regret washing over him in waves, each one crashing harder than the last. I wanted to hate him, to blame him for this whole mess but I knew that life in the gang was a constant gamble for your life and I had rolled the dice alongside him. Now regretting my choice more and more as my life slipped away from my fingertips.

“Why didn’t you call?” I asked finally, my voice barely above a whisper as it couldn’t go any louder without hurting my throat. “You could’ve just called for help instead of trying to take it all on by yourself. We were supposed to be in this together.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, the weight of his decisions evident in the deep wrinkles now shadowing his forehead. “I was just trying to protect you,” he murmured under his breath, his words barely making it past the knot in his throat. “I thought I could do it without dragging you deeper. Shit, I was wrong.”

Tears continued to stream down his face as he moved closer to my bed, taking my hand in his shaky one. In that moment, his grip felt both comforting and suffocating. All I could think was how this was it, this was the end of my life and I was stuck with the boy who had pulled me irreversibly into the chaos now I’m loosing my life over. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered, desperation dripping from his voice. “Not like this. Please don’t leave me.” The warmth of his palm felt like fire against my cool skin, dragging my attention back into the moment. “Don’t you dare fuck up your life over this, Matt. You think you can just take all the blame?” I gasped, the effort of speaking exhausting me out of every last bit of energy left inside of me. “If I go, you better make sure to get the hell out of here. Get away from this life but especially get away from this… all of it. Just… live.”

“No,” he cried, shaking his head vehemently. “No, I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to! It doesn’t make sense. You’re my—” “Your what? Your fucking partner? Your—” A fit of coughing washed over me, sharp pangs radiating through my chest as I struggled against the pain. “This isn’t a damn movie, Matt.” I took a ragged breath and stared hard into his eyes. “You get to be free, get to choose a better fucking path. Don’t waste my death living the same life.” Matt fell silent then, the resolve in his eyes cracking intensely. I could see the fight draining out of him, and I realized that we had both lost long ago. “Promise me,” I said, the words barely a whisper.

He nodded slowly, his tears blending with the chaos that filled the space between us. “I promise,” he said. “I will. I’ll do it for you.” As my breath slowed becoming less and less consistent, I focused on him and felt the weight of my own defeat. “Goodbye, Matt,” I gasped, my words slurring and fading. “Please, stay with me!” he pleaded, his voice breaking into pieces like shattered glass. But deep down, I knew the battle has finally came to an end. The darkness was creeping in and as I drifted away into unconsciousness, the last thing I heard was the sound of his broken heart echoing in the sterile silence of the hospital room.

@hearts4werka | do not copy, repost nor plagiarize any of my work on here or different platforms. You can be ‚inspired’ by my work but pls credit me and ask for permission first!

𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 🏷️ | - @sturnsxplr-25 - @strnzzvsp - @luvvs4chriss - @sturniolosweetheart33 - @pussypie456 - @choclatestarfishwithahat - @venusxsturnio - @bagsbyclair0 - @sturnstvs - @dykes4chris - @hoe4matt - @strnilolover - @marrykisskilled - @phone4pills - @emely9274 - @cupiidk1lls - @lily-strnlo - @nicksgirlfriend - @sturniolosiphone - @sophand4n4 - |

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Love your Bale Batman shop girl series! Was wondering how shop girl would feel if Catwoman or some other kick-ass woman came on the scene?

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Sure thing! I did go with a different kickass woman, since Catwoman does show up in the Nolan trilogy

Warnings: Light angst; fluff added for tasty goodness

You don’t really worry about the tabloids anymore. At least, not in the way that you used to. Michelle still sends you the odd article, but it’s usually accompanied by several 😂 emojis (the most notable is the one that suggested that you, Bruce, and Liz are in a throuple, and Grant is your collective beard). Whatever the press says about Bruce becomes white noise. 

But…What the press says about Batman still tends to seep through. 

You can’t help but notice the Gotham Gazette where it’s spread open on Rose’s desk. She’s turned away from it, reading through the approval form that you’ve brought over to her. You can’t help but reach out, turning the newspaper toward yourself and eyeing the grainy image of Batman. Your brow furrows as you draw the newspaper up to get a better look, scanning it more closely. He’s tied up in what look like vines, and nose-to-nose with a stunning, smiling, partially-masked woman. 

“You haven’t seen that yet?” Rose asks, glancing up from the document. “It’s been all over the papers for weeks.” 

“Has it?” You ask dazedly. You’ve managed to miss it. You haven’t been following mentions Batman as closely on social media since you started your new job—you just haven’t had time. 

“Mhm.” Rose folds her arm on her desk and leans in, peering at the picture. “Apparently it’s a real love-hate-cat-and-mouse kinda thing. Hot, right?” She waggles her brows. “I’d love to see what’s under that suit.” 

“Which?”

“Either.” 

You force a smile at the sight of Rose’s salacious grin, but you can’t help glancing back down at the article and skimming it. You commit the name to memory and make a mental note to look her up on your phone when you get back to your desk—

Poison Ivy. 

--  

It’s probably not much of a surprise that Bruce hasn’t mentioned her to you. For the most part—apart from the odd knowing glance, the bruises on his body, and the night he spilled into the penthouse half-dead—he keeps that side of himself to himself. Alfred doesn’t discuss it with you, either, and perhaps that’s why he seems so surprised when you slam your laptop shut as he comes into the kitchen that Saturday morning, hiding your googled articles of Poison Ivy and Batman. 

Alfred’s brows raise, and you offer him a nervous, guilty smile as your face goes hot. You know that you weren’t fast enough—you’d been so honed in on reading that you hadn’t heard him until he was passing right behind you. 

“...Is he awake yet?” You ask lightly, desperate to break the awkward silence. 

“Only just.” 

“‘Kay.” 

“It seems you and Master Wayne are researching similar topics these days,” He comments, swanning around the kitchen counter and setting down the empty breakfast tray. 

“Oh?” 

“Mm. She's proving to be a tougher nut to crack than he thought.” 

You consider for a moment. You could let the conversation go, of course. You’re certain Alfred wouldn’t press it. But: 

“Has he got any leads?” 

“A few,” Alfred nods, bracing his hands on the counter, “Though I would recommend asking him about his ideas and methodology.” 

You bristle before you sigh and slouch dejectedly, resting your chin on your hand. 

“He doesn’t talk about that stuff with me, Alfred.” 

“He doesn’t like for you to worry.” 

“I worry whether he tells me or not. Not knowing just makes me worry more.” 

“Then perhaps that’s something you ought to tell him.” 

You glance up at him warily, and some of your nerves ease as he gives you a warm smile. 

“Now,” He straightens, clapping his hands together and looking around the kitchen. “Despite the hour, Master Wayne is tucking into his breakfast. Shall I get something together for your lunch?” 

You consider for a moment, eyes darting down the hall before you stand, shaking your head. 

“Let’s put a pin in that. I think I’m just gonna…Go steal some of Bruce’s toast.” 

Alfred smiles knowingly, giving you a wink before you turn fully from him and head down the hall. 

-- 

The blackout curtains have been raised just enough to let a little bit of light into the room, but it’s still quite dim. You can see the empty smoothie glass on the bedside table, and the plate of toast that Bruce has put on the wide headboard behind him. Bruce looks preciously rumpled, scrubbing his eyes as he sits up in bed. You can see a few light bruises on his bare chest and arms, but nothing too egregious. His eyes are still narrowed with sleep as he lowers his hands, and his hair looks as ruffled as a baby bird’s. He perks up as you come in, a sleepy smile pulling at his lips as you come closer. 

“Hey, baby,” He murmurs, opening his arms as you climb into bed beside him. 

“Sleep okay?” You ask, cuddling into his side. 

“Fine. I thought you were seeing Michelle for brunch.”

“Got moved to drinks this evening. She had a work thing come up.”

Bruce hums in understanding, tucking you close and pressing a kiss to your head. You bite your lip, grappling with how to bring up the conversation. 

“Late night?” You finally ask lightly. You're relieved when you don’t feel Bruce tense, or reel away. He just rubs his hand gently over your arm.

“Mhm.” 

“Later than usual?” 

“...About on par.” 

“Mm.” You eye the steady rise and fall of his chest for a few moments before you hedge: “Hope you don't mind my asking–” 

“It’s fine—” 

“—You’ve just seemed a little tied up lately.” You give Bruce a sly, teasing smile, and it widens to a grin when you see him fighting back his own smile. 

“Is that why you came in here?” He asks dryly.

“Of course not. I saw Alfred bringing you toast.” You straighten up, reaching over his shoulder, taking up a piece, and biting into it. Bruce chuckles, and you grin as he leans into you, nuzzling against your neck. You hum as you chew, your skin prickling at the feeling of his thickening stubble. 

“How’s it going, anyway?” You ask. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You have any leads?” 

Your stomach drops when you feel him go tense. He sighs softly, leaning away to get a better look at you. You reach back, setting the toast down and dusting crumbs from your fingers before you fold your hands in your lap, waiting patiently. After a few moments, you can’t help but wring your hands subtly as Bruce observes you, and then lowers his gaze to the sheets. 

“I’m not sure I want to discuss that with you,” He finally admits. You swallow thickly, fighting to keep from shifting and fidgeting with nerves. 

“Can I ask why not?” 

Bruce pushes a sigh out through his nose, giving a small shake of his head. 

“I can’t keep it out, huh,” He mutters. 

“Well…You did for a while. Didn’t go so well,” You remind him lightly. Bruce nods, scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck as he mutters, “I know.”

You tentatively reach out, resting your hand atop his. He turns his hand over, taking a gentle hold of yours. 

“I’m not asking you to make me a suit and teach me to fight, Bruce. I just want you to let me in.” 

His lips twitch with a smile as he reaches up, cupping your cheek and sweeping his thumb across your cheekbone. 

“I think…That her name is Pamela Isley. She’s a botanist.” 

“Why is she doing…what she’s doing?” 

“That’s what I still need to find out.” 

You nod, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his lips. 

“Thank you.” 

He hums, grasping your jaw and drawing you in for another long, warm kiss. 

“That’s never happening,” He adds as the kiss breaks. You frown, brow furrowing. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Making you a suit, teaching you to fight.” 

You pout, cocking your head to the side. 

“I ought to know how to at least throw a punch, right?” 

“We’ll see about that. It’s a slippery slope,” Bruce chuckles, patting your cheek before nodding over his shoulder. “Eat your toast.” 

Next Part

[random-imagines-blog]

Imagine being a sorceress and being intrigued by Batman resisting your charms.

“Well, well, well, sugar,” You purred, walking in a circle around Batman - Bruce Wayne himself. You took in the appearance of his form-fitting suit, which showed off all of those muscles, and those very sexy broad shoulders, nicely. The cleft in his chin which is pretty distinguishable, if anyone got a decent look at him. “The Dark Knight returns.” He was gifted at holding himself together, you had to give him that. Normally, just from this look that you were giving him, any man would have been simpering at your feet. Batman was a tough nut to crack, and that just made you more intrigued. “You’re going to release everyone from your spells,” Batman said, readying himself, standing tensely. You could see his hands just itching to go towards his weapons. “Right now.” “Come on bats, they’re hardly the worse for wear. In fact,” You said with a smile, slinking around Bruce, brushing his shoulders with the tips of your fingers. “It’s the happiest you’ve seen any of them in months, isn’t it? You can feel that way too if you want. Just submit. Just let go. Give yourself to me.” “Never!” Bruce shot his arm out towards you, grabbing you, but his touch on your arm only made your powers feel stronger. You put your hand on him in return as he tried to throw you off, butt you were able to keep your footing. “I’ve also heard that sometimes … the Dark Knight Rises,” You said with a smirk. “I’d like to see if that’s true.” “Your perverted remarks - do nothing to me -” He said, grinding his teeth. He finally got the upper hand on you, as you were astounded by his resolve, and you fell back onto the ground. You rubbed your elbow, finding that Batman had caused you to bleed, which was more than most of your enemies were able to do. “Interesting - very interesting,” You said, standing up, your eyes narrowing on him. “I’m going to go have your boy Clarke patch this up for me and then we’ll meet again, Brucie. I’m looking forward to seeing the Rise one day.” With a quick flash of smoke to disguise your escape, you disappeared back to the waiting vehicle, where some of your love-struck lackeys were waiting. You didn’t lie - you would be going to good old Superman to patch you up, to take tender care of you. And maybe you’d even send a video of him doing so to Brucie, just to get under his skin more.

Requested by: Anonymous

[wishcamper]

A special WIP Wednesday

inspired by @kale-theteaqueen, here's one out-of-context snippet from each piece I have lined up for @nessianweek!

Banter - Win Lose or Draw

“I think you’re stalling. Take a bite, Lady Death.”

“You go first, Lord of Bloodshed, if you’re so eager,” she snapped, stabbing a finger at the jar of strange, grayish clumps suspended in brine in front of him. Knowing Nesta, they were probably some poor creature’s testicles.

Yearning - Is This It?

“Look, we both know how this is going to go. I’m going to tell you to stop because it’s killing me, you’re going to say it has nothing to do with me. And we’re both going to know that’s not true but we’ll pretend like it is. Like this has nothing to do with me."

Symphony - Five More Minutes

A groan rumbles somewhere behind her, incoherent mumblings of her mate rousing, emerging from the depths of sleep into the day. The slide of sheets, a rustle of wings, then a muffling as he drapes one over her, cocooned for a moment while he presses closer and noises of lazy contentment fill her ear.

Behind Closed Doors - High Stakes

Neither of her sisters knew, by design he suspected, and Mor had never shown any interest. Azriel had a brief, brilliant run before his competitiveness got the best of him and he was banned for brawling at the table, one of the only standing rules. Emerie and Eris were regulars, and he’d seen the others in attendance before: broad-shouldered Megrin Stonecutter of the Velaris maester’s guild and Nuan of Dawn, who perched cross-legged in her chair, a pair of elaborate spectacles whirring on her round face.

Legends and Destiny - Out of the Fog, Into the Mist

“You’re a harder nut to crack than the rest. I don’t imagine threatening you out of it would work either. Oh, don’t get twisted about yourself,” she added when his hand moved automatically toward the hilt of his silver blade. “All that would happen is you’d break a lot of my things and then I’d have a great bloody mess to clean up. Truthfully I can’t be bothered.”

“You’re wasting my time, sweetheart. Where are the girls?”

“Don’t be beastly.”

“Snatching children from their homes, I could argue you’re the beast.”

[stanleypinesgf]

Falling for Mystery - Chapter Seventeen

Falling for Mystery Masterlist Warnings: gambling mentioned (not in a negative way though), a much needed fluffy chapter! i also wanna thank @danni3l SO MUCH for the inspiration, his help on the direction of the fic and for the support so far!! Please note: this is a slow burn fic with eventual smut and mature themes, 18+ only and please check warnings at the start of chapters! TYSM for all the support so far!! w/c: 3,039 The days after our confession settled into a warm, steady rhythm, but everything still felt new, like we were learning each other all over again. Stan kept throwing himself into his work, hunched over endless notes and old maps with a furrowed brow. He didn’t talk about it much, but progress, however small, was still progress. Every night, he’d work late, poring over any lead that might bring him closer to finding Ford. But lately, he’d come to bed a little earlier, reaching for my hand before sleep finally claimed him.

I’d started taking on more shifts in the gift shop so he could work undisturbed and get a little more rest. But every now and then, he’d surprise me, wrapping his arms around me from behind and resting his chin on my shoulder, like he needed a quiet moment to make sure I was still there. There was a softness in him now, barely noticeable to anyone else, but it lingered in his touch, in the way his gaze would find me across the room and hold a little longer than before and I revelled in it

It was one of those late nights, long after closing, when Stan came into the living room looking like he’d stumbled on a new idea. He sat down beside me on the couch, a playful glint in his eye that always preceded trouble.

“What are you scheming?” I asked playfully, setting my book down.

He sank into the cushion next to me, looking almost boyish in his anticipation. “Been thinkin’ it’s time we took a little break,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck with a faint grin.

“You’ve been workin’ yourself to the bone to keep this place runnin’, and… well, I’ve been drivin’ myself nuts, y'know... All these leads that keep runnin’ dry.” He scratched the back of his neck, disappointment hanging thick in the air. “So, what do you say? Just you and me, off somewhere exciting. Just for a few days.”

“A break?” I raised an eyebrow, stifling a laugh. “Stanley Pines? Taking time off? That’s new.”

He shot me a mock-serious look, one eyebrow quirking up. “Even I know when it’s time to get outta Dodge for a bit. Besides, you’ve been workin’ like crazy around here, and I’m just about goin’ cross-eyed tryin’ to crack all these dead-end leads. We could both use a reset, y’know? A little time just for us.”

“A reset, you say?” I echoed, amused. “So what are you suggesting?”

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. “Vegas, baby. Just you and me, paintin’ the Strip red. And with you as my good-luck charm…” he winked, “I’d say we’re bound to hit the jackpot.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “So now you want to gamble?”

He shrugged, his grin widening. “Hey, I figure my luck’s turnin’ around now that I’ve got you. And it’s been a while since I’ve shown someone the ropes out there. What do you say?”

I felt excitement bubbling up. “Alright. Let’s do it, I've kind of always wanted to go. Vegas, here we come!” Stan’s grin softened, his usual swagger giving way to something more affectionate as he stepped closer. Before I could react, he slipped his arms around my waist and, with surprising ease, lifted me off the ground, spinning us both around. I let out a laugh as the room spun around us, holding tightly onto Stan’s broad shoulders.

When he set me down, his hands lingered on my waist, his gaze steady and warm as he looked down at me, his eyes flickering with a hint of that mischief I’d come to know so well. Then, without another word, he leaned in, pressing his lips to mine in a kiss that was equal parts sweet and exhilarating.

As he pulled back, a grin tugged at his mouth. “There,” he said, as if he’d just crossed off the first thing on a list. “Figured that was the best way to start a road trip. Now, let’s go make Vegas regret it ever let us in.”

The next morning, the house was bustling with the sound of Stan packing, tossing everything into his suitcase like he was late for a bus. I’d laugh every few minutes at some outlandish addition—a glittering blue shirt, a paisley tie, sunglasses that could pass for a disco ball.

“You’re really going all out, huh?” I teased, holding up a particularly loud Hawaiian shirt. I couldn’t help the anticipation building within me at the promise of seeing him in it.

He looked up, his pride unmistakable. “Hey, you can’t show up to the Strip lookin’ like an amateur. Gotta make an impression.” He grinned. “And don’t worry—I’ve got a whole collection of backup ties.”

He looked down at his suitcase, giving a satisfied nod as he surveyed his stash of ties and the wildly coloured shirts he was convinced were essential Vegas attire. Outside, the early morning light was creeping over the trees, casting a warm glow over the car waiting out front—a low-slung, cherry-red ’65 El Diablo, polished to a gleam that stood out against the gravel. The whole setup screamed Stan Pines: loud, defiant, and a little rough around the edges. He looked up at me, a proud gleam in his eye, like a kid about to show off his prized possession.

I grinned, trying to keep a straight face. “So, the Stanmobile’s been waiting out there all this time, and now I get the honour?”

Stan smirked, puffing out his chest just a bit. “You’re lookin’ at a true beast—a ’65 El Diablo. Picked her up a few years back, slapped on a little elbow grease, and she’s practically my right hand.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, his voice dropping as he added, “She may look a little rough around the edges, but she’s got charm. Besides, a little character never hurt nobody.”

“Character, huh?” I raised an eyebrow, shooting him a playful look. “She gonna make it through the desert?”

“Make it?” He scoffed, crossing his arms, eyes glinting with pride. “This baby’s got more fire than anything else on the road. A few taps on the engine, a bit of luck, and she’ll purr like a kitten.” He leaned in, grinning. “Only this kitten’ll do 90 before you can blink. C’mon, you in?” With a wink, he tossed the keys into the air and caught them in his fist, grinning like he’d just won big. “Let’s give ‘em a show they’ll never forget.”

With our suitcases packed into the back of his prized 1965 El Diablo, we set off just as the sun was climbing over the treetops, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold. The engine rumbled to life as he shifted into gear, the vibration resonating through the car, and we were off, tearing down the highway with the open road and sixteen hours of desert stretching out ahead of us—a promise of adventure waiting just beyond the horizon.

The first day passed in a blur of laughter and terrible road-trip snacks—an assortment of candy bars, chips, and those questionable gas station sandwiches Stan insisted were “gourmet.” Every bite came with a side of laughter as Stan recounted stories from his youth, punctuated with dramatic gestures and wild expressions that had me in stitches. He described his childhood antics, like the time he tried to build a rocket in his backyard, only to end up setting the neighbor's shed on fire. Every so often, he’d playfully take his hand off the wheel to ruffle my hair or tap me on the shoulder to point out some ridiculous sight on the side of the road—a faded billboard advertising “World’s Largest Ball of Twine” or a quirky diner shaped like a giant burger.

By afternoon, we were passing through winding mountain roads, the landscape transforming into a sea of sandy hills and distant, rugged cliffs. The sharp, dry air was filled with the scent of sunbaked rock and sagebrush, the car warm from the sun streaming through the windows. The radio blared a mix of old rock songs, the melodies floating through the air like a nostalgic breeze, and Stan joined in with his gravelly voice, hitting every other note with a wild, unapologetic enthusiasm. I couldn’t help but join him, our voices echoing through the car and out into the open desert, harmonising with the wind rushing past us.

As evening settled in, the temperature dropped, and the sky turned into a sprawling canvas of stars, each one twinkling like a distant promise. We pulled off at a roadside motel, a small, half-forgotten place with neon lights flickering at the edge of the highway, casting a warm glow that felt both welcoming and a little eerie. The buzzing of the neon sign mixed with the chirping of crickets in the cool night air. Stan tossed me a grin as he grabbed our bags, his excitement infectious, and we headed into the modest little room, laughing as we surveyed the dusty décor and the old TV that looked like a relic from a bygone era.

Stan flopped down on the bed, the springs creaking under his weight as he stretched out with a dramatic sigh, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, the glamorous life,” he said, tossing a wink my way, his eyes warm and a little tired from the day’s drive.

“Better get some sleep,” I teased, sinking down beside him. The bed was surprisingly comfortable. “Vegas won’t know what hit it.”

He chuckled, reaching over to take my hand, his thumb gently tracing small circles over my fingers. There was a quiet between us that felt natural, with only the hum of the air conditioner and the faint glow of the neon seeping through the window. After a moment, he gave my hand a gentle squeeze, his gaze distant for a beat before softening as he looked at me.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this lucky,” he said quietly, almost to himself. His words surprised me, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

He turned toward me, his expression more open, vulnerable, as if letting me see a part of him he usually kept guarded. My heart skipped, and I reached out, tracing my fingers over his knuckles, the roughness of his hands grounding me. When he leaned in, it wasn’t hurried or passionate, but something gentler, his forehead resting against mine before our lips met, slow and unhurried.

The world outside blurred; it was just us, breathing in sync, wrapped in a moment that felt both tender and fragile. After a while, he brushed a light kiss to my forehead, holding me close with a kind of quiet affection that made me feel warm to my bones. “Vegas better watch out,” he murmured, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. "It has no idea what’s coming." And as we lay there, tangled up in each other’s warmth, with the hum of the old motel’s neon sign outside, there was an unspoken excitement between us—a thrill that felt like we were already on the edge of something big, as if this tiny, forgotten motel was just the calm before our storm.

We were up early, back on the road before the sun had fully risen, the air still crisp with the promise of a new day. With each mile, the excitement grew, the landscape flattening out into a wide, open desert that stretched to the horizon, a golden sea of sand and sage. The El Diablo rumbled along the highway, the hum of the engine almost meditative as we drove through the vastness of Nevada, punctuated only by the occasional gust of wind that rattled the car.

Stan reached over, lacing his fingers with mine and glancing over with that familiar grin that made my heart race. “You know, most people I’ve taken on road trips either bail halfway through or fall asleep after hour two,” he half-joked, squeezing my hand with a warmth that made me feel cherished. “Guess you’re a keeper.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I laughed, trying to sound nonchalant, though I could feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. “I’m only here for the free ride and questionable snacks.”

He laughed, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he turned his attention back to the road, the sun casting golden rays that danced across his features. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, sweetheart.”

As the morning rolled on, we stopped at a roadside diner that seemed plucked from a classic movie, its checkered floor and chrome accents offering a nostalgic charm. The smell of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon wafted through the air, making our stomachs growl in unison. Stan ordered an enormous stack of pancakes for us to share, and as we dug in, we swapped stories about our lives, the shared meal making it feel like we were forging an even deeper bond.

With our bellies full, we climbed back into the El Diablo, the sun now high in the sky, bathing everything in warm, golden light. The miles rolled by as we continued our journey, the world outside the car transforming into a vibrant tapestry of desert flora and rocky outcrops. I leaned my head against the window, watching the scenery shift, feeling a sense of freedom wash over me as the road unwound before us, leading us to whatever adventures awaited in Las Vegas.

We finally saw the first signs of Vegas in the distance as the sun was setting, casting a fiery glow over the horizon that seemed to ignite the sky with hues of orange and pink. The Strip rose from the desert like some neon-lit oasis, a dizzying mix of flashing lights and towering buildings that reached for the heavens. As we drove closer, Stan’s grin widened, and he slowed down, soaking in the sights as if he were witnessing a miracle. The excitement was palpable, a shared thrill that coursed through the air like a jolt of electricity.

“This is it,” he murmured, parking in front of a sprawling hotel and casino, its golden windows catching the last rays of sunlight and shimmering like treasure against the deepening twilight. The air was thick with the scent of warm asphalt and blooming desert flowers, and I could feel the energy of the city vibrating in my chest as he climbed out, looking around with an expression somewhere between awe and nostalgia, as if the very walls of the casino held echoes of dreams and adventures past.

As we stepped into the lobby, we were immediately enveloped in a world of opulence and excitement. The lobby was a maze of polished marble and gleaming brass, the cool surface reflecting the vibrant colours of the extravagant chandeliers overhead, which sparkled like stars in a night sky. The hum of slot machines echoed around us, creating a melodic backdrop of anticipation and excitement that buzzed like electricity. Stan walked in like he owned the place, tipping his hat to the concierge with a playful swagger, the corners of his mouth twitching in a confident grin. The atmosphere was electric, filled with the soft chimes of coins falling, laughter spilling from the nearby bar, and the rhythmic clatter of dice hitting the table, all harmonizing in a symphony of indulgence and pleasure.

As we approached the check-in desk, the concierge greeted us with a polished smile, her uniform crisp and bright against the luxurious surroundings. “Welcome to the Oasis Grand,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “Checking in?”

Stan leaned against the railing, his eyes flickering over the endless sea of neon, catching reflections of red, green, and blue that danced in the night sky. The distant sounds of laughter and music floated up from the streets below, a siren song beckoning us to join in the revelry. He turned toward me, his gaze lingering, a warmth in his eyes that matched the pulse of the lights below. “You ready?” he asked, his voice low and warm, vibrating with excitement and possibility. “Let’s put that good luck to the test.”

Without thinking, I stepped closer, letting his hand slip from the railing to my cheek. The world around us faded, replaced by the electric thrill of his touch, his presence filling the air. I felt the gentle brush of his thumb on my skin as he leaned in, his breath warm, carrying the faint scent of the diner coffee we’d shared that morning. And then his lips met mine, soft and steady, grounding me amid the dizzying lights and sounds below.

For a moment, we lingered there, just us and the neon-lit night, the world a blur beyond that moment. When we finally broke apart, he grinned, the familiar spark of mischief in his eyes. “Alright, now we’re definitely on a winning streak.”

I laughed, feeling the thrill of adventure and the lingering warmth of his kiss as I reached for his hand again, threading my fingers through his. “Let’s make this a night to remember,” I replied, my heart racing with anticipation for the adventures that awaited us just beyond those glowing lights.

As we stepped back inside, the sounds of the casino beckoned us like a wave, pulling us into its embrace. The slot machines blinked and chimed in a symphony of possibility, while laughter spilled from the nearby bar, mixing with the scent of cocktails and the rich aroma of food from the restaurant. I felt the magnetic pull of the atmosphere wrapping around us, igniting our spirits for the night ahead.

“Alright, Trouble, let’s see what this place has to offer!” Stan exclaimed, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he placed his hand on the small of my back, guiding me gently toward the door. The thrill of the unknown awaited us, and as we stepped out into the vibrant night, I could feel the energy of the city pulsing around us. “Just remember, I’m the one leading the charge, so try to keep up!” he added with a smirk. I couldn’t help but laugh, knowing that whatever happened next, this was just the beginning of our adventure. Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[aritany]

hi alex! I’ve always been in awe of your ability to write and finish first drafts at such good speed while having so much going on in your life. any tips for being able to write so prolifically?

hi anon! this is such a sweet message—thank you!

i do think it comes down to a few things in my nature (i LOVE to write and having an unfinished draft feels like having an open tab in my brain that drives me nuts) but there are definitely some external choices and strategies that help.

above all else, i write daily regardless of inspiration. i almost never sit down at the keyboard because i got inspired or motivated to, i sit down because that’s a part of every day. like any habit, this becomes easier with time.

secondly, it’s essential for me to remember that first drafts don’t have to be great. sometimes they are, and that’s cool. sometimes they’re severely lacking, and that’s also fine. a first draft’s only job is to exist and to be a skeleton that gets the story out and the baseline personalities onto the page. anything else is a bonus. the more you do it, the better your first drafts get. except for sometimes. but that’s what editing is for!

thirdly, but by far most importantly, i have an excellent cheerleading team. this doesn’t feel like something i do on purpose anymore, but i did work hard to build a community of close friends who also write and who have become incredible sources of inspiration. just last month @reininginthefirewriting came down for a writing retreat and helped crack open a huge mess in my brain that had become a mental block. @unlicensedmortician lives in my house (because we bonded so hard over what i’d been writing) and not only feeds me so i don’t have to worry about the meat suit, but also makes the impossible possible when i start getting weird in the brain. @ghostcasket is my partner both in writing and in life. another friend of mine helped me recover my voice after tradpub stripped it, and i got to hire them to be my paid editor for IWYW. (i met all four of them here on writeblr! go message that writer you like—it pays off) and that’s just to name a few. the last 4 years have brought incredible people into my life, and there would be many less drafts without them. (hi discord pocket family! love you guys)

i’ll also note: my familial obligations are much less than the average person. this is not for fun reasons, but it does help that within my own home writing mostly doesn’t have to bid for my attention against my immediate family.

also READ. read lots. nobody is joking when they tell you that helps. it’s so important. read in your genre and out of it. read EVERYTHING.

so: write when you don’t feel like it. let your first drafts be messy. invest in your writer friends. cut off your bigoted family i mean don’t do that. (or do.) READ.

i hope that helps!

[theredstargalaxy]

As the world of the northern hemisphere grows colder and darker, I feel compelled to look back on warmer, brighter times. Christmases, Halloweens, Thanksgivings, and summer vacations long since gone float and flit though my memory like butterflies in search of flowers. They appear, and warm my soul like a tiny candle flame, and fade just as quickly once they sit for a while. These memories, some recent and some further back, are cherished; I hold them close and they keep my heart warm in this ever-frigid world. You know, it never hurts to look back every once in a while. It doesn’t hurt oneself to recall the pleasant days of a bygone childhood—if you have such memories, of course. The days which some of us spent in bliss and splendor, some have spent in hell. In truth, I feel such deep sorrow for them; such delicate and important times, like childhood, should have been spent playing, watching cartoons, or forming friendships without a care in the world. Instead, they spent their early years trying to protect themselves, their siblings, or their parents. Or, caring for others because their “parents” couldn’t. This little rambling session you’re about to read is, thankfully, not like that at all. I assure you, my childhood wasn���t bad–it wasn’t good either, but that’s beside the point. This monolith of text is going to be a more pleasant experience, I promise.

What made me look back was a video I watched by content creator, B. Dylan Hollis; the creator of his popular Vintage Baking Tik-Toks, and writer of the Cooking Yesteryear cookbook. This morning, just after breakfast, I came across a channel he had on YouTube. Said channel was dedicated to his rambles about whatever he had on his mind. A simple premise, to be sure, but the nostalgic feel of the video I came upon naturally began to make me look back. I paused it, and began to comb through the things I remembered from my childhood–in the days where winter was still bitterly cold, and when Christmas still had a touch of magic to it. Surprisingly, I remembered quite a few things from back then–too many things to really address in this post. But, I’d figured that I could at least share some things. Namely memories of friends, and the places I’ve been. So, why don’t you come with me, and take a walk down memory lane? If these memories compel you to share your own, then please feel free to either reblog this post and add them–or leave them in the replies!

The first memory is from the third grade. My classmates and I had gone on a fieldtrip. Sadly, I don’t remember much about it–what we learned is so far into the back, that I can’t seem to dig it up. What I do remember, however, were the trees on the property. Those trees were, like all others, tall and robust, reaching up to the heavens like desperate men seeking God. Their roots were firmly planted to the earth, stretching along the ground like snakes. And there, resting around the serpentine roots, were leaflitter, and little, brown seed-like things. At first, i didn’t know what they were; my little brain couldn’t recognize what it saw. Then, a friend of mine at the time approached the tree, picked up the small, “seeds”, came back to me, and cracked them open. The things I thought were seeds weren’t seeds at all– they were nuts! But they weren’t just any nuts, no. The sweet, buttery taste didn’t match anything I’d ever had before; they didn’t taste like peanuts, or cashews, or almonds. After she had given me a few, I asked her what they were, and with a bright, sunny smile, she said: “They’re Pecans!” I had just eaten raw pecans, fresh off the tree. Ah, those were some damn good pecans. I wish I could go out and find a tree, just to gather some of those puppies and take them home for a snack. I tell you, nothing beats fresh pecans–not even a processed pecan pie. And that, my friends is a hill I’d gladly die on.

This second memory also involves food. My father and I had gone up north, to New York State, to see some family over near Utica. We had been at an uncle’s place to stay for the week. We had planned on seeing the vintage car show that Saturday, but the day before that, we were invited to join a neighborhood barbecue. So, that Friday, we went over into an old field near a local lake, and met up with some of the town’s residence there. The grills were already set up, smoking up the skies with what I think was mesquite smoke–I’m not a griller, or a smoker, so I wouldn’t know hickory from oak. And people were lining up to get their plates. Young children in strollers–some having been freed to run around the immediate area– and older adults. One of which, if my my memory serves, was a veteran from the Korean war. I remember he had that iconic, veterans’ cap on. My father, uncle, and I went through the line and grabbed our chicken, a scoop of potato salad, and a fresh ear of corn. And we sat down to eat. The chicken was immaculate; juicy, tender, and smokey. It was better than any chicken I had before (sorry, mom.). The potato salad, though good, just wasn’t my thing–I never liked potato salad to begin with. But the corn? Sweet jesus, that corn. It was super pale yellow, almost white, and it was mildly, naturally sweet. And with butter and salt added on, it was the most heavenly ear of corn I’d ever had in my life. To this day, I haven’t had corn anywhere near as good at that. If there was ever something I wish I could always have, it’d be that glorious corn.

The last one I’ll share, thankfully, doesn’t have food in the spot light. About three years prior to my metaphorical love affair with the corn, my father, uncle and I went to a car show down in Waterville. My uncle had an old model A that he would show off there every year. That particular year, they had a mix of vintage and modern cars on display. I don’t remember a majority of them– cars didn’t really interest me at the time– but I do remember one of them: A blue Pontiac Shelby GT. My god, that thing was beautiful. It had sleek, deep blue paint and two wide, matte white stripes going up along the hood, over the back, and up along the trunk. That car single handedly made me a believer…. I wanted to touch it–I didn’t because I couldn’t– but I wanted to touch it so damn bad. You know, whenever I think about that car, I get butterflies. Like a boy thinking about his first love. And every time I recall it, that feeling returns, as strong as it was that day. You know, its experiences like that, that make me question my sexuality a little. Because I’ve never felt anything for a real person, but I feel those butterflies for fictional folk, and that one gorgeous car.

I suppose that’ll be all for today. Take care of yourselves today, and thank you all so much for reading!

[shroudandsands]

Prompt #25: Perpetuity

The wind rushed past him. Colors bled into an unintelligible stream of light. A swirl of sight and sound that lasted for just as long as he could stay lost somewhere between the air and the water below- Which rushed to take him in its gentle embrace.

It’d be easy to think that the swim back to shore was his least favorite part of his life. To climb his way to incredible heights, at times clawing his way up them. To crest the peak of it and stare out upon the distance and the sky and the setting sun. To throw himself from it to experience the greatest thrill any person alive could, feeling every piece of him come alive from the sheer rush of it. To sink deep into the waters below and come to something of a kind of peace. Of course. He’s had those thoughts a million times by now. It was an easy, constantly satisfying routine. At this point there were coastlines off of Vylbrand that he could count every stone. Trace every crack in the cliff as he was falling. And name every plant as he climbed up once again. It was familiar. It was comforting. It was, in some ways, a calming piece of a hobby meant only for the absolutely fucking nuts. And he was pretty high on that scale. So. The swim back to shore.

He let the roll of a wave pull him in towards the shoreline until he could get his feet down and steady in the sand. His hair pushed back to get seawater out of his eyes, his drenched shirt pulled off and wrung out once he could finally stand, his boots yanked off so they could drain out for a little while. The whirl of the wind was still in his ears as he watched Sif while away the mid-day sun with the latest of their takes- Swiped coconuts from a merchant and a few jars of lye that would shore up the stockpile for the next few moons. He could feel the salt on his skin as she looked up at him. A wave of the spoon from in front of their fire. A roll of her eyes as she saw him stripping before he could even make it all the way out of the water. “Y’ really think yer gonna be doin’ this forever, Walker?” She shouted out, the spoon pointed at him in that judgemental way that only a wooden spoon could really manage. “Tha’s the plan, lass! That’s the plan.” She clicked her tongue as she returned to stirring the pot whilst he slowly made his way across hot sand and rock to reach her. His shirt badly tethered to a makeshift line, his boots dropped onto a flat rock in the sun, a towel pulled into his hands and left to sit on his head while he dried off.

“How far along are y’ yet, lass?” He bumped her- she bumped him back before making a noise of frustration that he was still wet- and looked over the edge of the pot. “Ain’t far. Since we’re settin’ up early fer yer fun li’l death defyin’ hobby- yer still a maniac, by th’ way- I fig’red I’d just get us started. Yer gonna be takin’ over soon enough anyways.” She tapped the spoon a couple of times over the pot before chucking another piece of wood into the flames underneath. “I need m’ beauty rest.” “Yer beauty rest.” “Aye, y’ain’t the only one here needin’ enough sleep t’ stay pretty an’ prime fer public appearances.” “An’ ‘ere I thought you were jus’ naturally funny lookin’ all the time. Now yer sayin’ y’ have t’ work to look like tha’?” He got whacked with a boot. “Alrigh’, alrigh’ jus’- Jus’ ‘and m’ the damn spoon an’ get yer clown-y sleep y’ darlin’ lass-” He got whacked with the other boot.

The swim back to shore, if you took everything individually, was certainly not the best part of the whole event. Salt water all over him. Drenched clothes. The annoying task of fighting the waves and the tide as he made his way back to land. But he supposed (inwardly, at least. It’s not as if anyone was having this conversation with him.) that if taken as a part of the whole moment, the whole day, the moment from climbing up to starting over again… He glanced into the pot as the oil within slowly started to thicken. He pulled it off the heat for a moment as he searched for their jar of lye crystals… An eyeballed handful and another toss onto the fire for stirring.

Yeah. He liked this part. “That’s the plan, lass,” He murmured to himself. Even as the salt stuck to his skin. Even as she laid against a tree, hat over her face. “That’s the plan.”

[blorbologist]

Cat’s Cradle, Chapter 15

Ch1 ... Ch14

Two more months.

Percy just has to survive two more months. Then the kittens will have homes and he can make a swift exit with what’s left of his heart. Or maybe even sooner: Vax’ildan and Keyleth will not be gone forever. And the kittens only need a few more weeks of care until Curio and Vex can handle themselves without him.

Finding excuses to stay is almost trivial, is the trouble. Namely Vex’s long hours - he’s not sure she’d remember to eat if not for Trinket whining at her heels. There’s some matzo ball soup from Pike waiting to be warmed on the stove once the animals - good gods, a dog and a cat and six kittens - are cared for.

She only just got home, not even taking the time to shuck her jacket before finding him, preparing a bottle of her own and coaxing one of the kittens to feed. 

(The turquoise dress and dark leather jacket is criminally good looking. Wow, legs.)

“There’s a good darling,” she murmurs, eyes a starlit darkness as Spanner latches and drinks obnoxiously loudly. Ratchet, by comparison, is quieter, pawing at the air in front of her with tiny talons.

Vex leans heavily into Percy’s side, the last rags of her perfume settling with the benign scents of a busy day. He has no idea how she can go from that to caring for something small, helpless - he would certainly need to sequester himself away from anything alive for an hour or three. 

She pokes his flank with an elbow. “Did I miss anything today?”

Percy hums. “Well,” he says, “I had a front-row seat to a gladiatorial battle today.”

The grin is infectious - her eyes fight to stay on task. “Oh?”

“Mmmmhm - I’d almost call it a fight club. Terribly unclouth ear-biting. Slow-motion rabbit-kicks.”

“And who were the little champions?” Vex’s finger draws over the tiny black spine - Spanner’s tail shoots up and she leans into the touch. “Was it you, darling? I bet it was you.”

His chuckle feels punched out of him, of its own accord. Gods. “Actually - it was the twins and Velcro.”

She loses some battle and glances at him sidelong. It feels like victory, until he realizes it’s a trap. “Nuts and Bolts?”

Percy groans. “We are not having this discussion again.”

“Why not?” He should freeze when Vex snickers, falling further into his side. Not relax into it, the warmth of her cheek so close. She blinks and he can feel it.

Ratchet - not Bolts - churrs, gumming the bottle’s nipple more lazily. Her little mouth is caked in formula, little head lolling back in contentment. Perfect timing - he owes her one.

Percy clears his throat. Pulls himself away. It’s like slowly submerging his head in cold water. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no - I’m -” Vex bites her lip. Percy studiously does not look at her as he wipes the kitten’s mouth, puts her back, refills the bottle for the next hellion. He swears he hears her voice quaver: “That’s on me. Friends, right?”

Weeks, months? How the hell is he going to survive another day?

--

“Curio, what am I going to do?”

The cat in question has nothing to say about it. Which is very fair - Percy is hardly expecting her to respond. He’s supposed to habituate her to human voices and proximity again. With his last few emails sent and laptop sitting closed on the tiles, and Vex not due home for another two hours, he figures Curio is as good a confidant as any.

It remains that he is sitting in the tub as though it’s a therapist’s couch (without his shoes on, he’s no monster) and going over his troubles to a cat. She’s already listened to him bemoan taxes and gush about her babies while devouring the plate of chicken he’d left nearby. Now she’s hiding somewhere - maybe in the shower curtains, or in her kennel, or behind the sink. Hard to tell from this angle. 

So Percy keeps talking, mapping cracks in the tile. “We agreed to keep it platonic. But it’s not, it’s very clearly not, and I refuse to overstep and make her uncomfortable.”

Fuck, it makes him uncomfortable - just how badly he wants to hold her and tell her a thousand juvenile, stupid things. 

(Maybe he wants to be out of his comfort zone. Sweat a little, because Vex is - Vex is worth it. And he can wait, and live with these scraps he steals if it all amounts to what they had before.)

“Regardless of my feelings.” He swallows hard. Digs his gaze into a missing corner of ceramic. “Regardless - she deserves better. You know I was a complete wreck the day you - when you and your littlest joined us? And I stay up late, too scared to close my eyes. That they - and you, and her - might all be gone or worse when I open them.”

Percy sighs. “Why can’t I just fix me? Work as intended? This - all this pinning - is so complicated.”

The rasp of carpet - so she was curled behind the toilet, then.

“I’m sure you never had to deal with this,” he grumbles. “Just find a tom or two and never think about the ordeal again. And never will, again, now that you’re spayed.”

Pat-pat-pat, and a soft thunk. Eyes bluer than he can imagine lock with his.

“Oh.” 

Curio stands awkwardly on the lip of the bath, three legs somewhat splayed for balance on the smooth surface. Her ears form delicate little wings, unsure but not scared. 

Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, Percy paws for the treats kept on hand for this miracle. And extends his open hand and offering to the molly. 

Only briefly does she sniff before dipping her head to - 

he was going to call it delicately nibble, but she absolutely scarfs down the treats with a mumbly growl. It’s hilarious, and dismisses his heavy heart with ease.

And then - and then she stretches her neck out, sniffing along his wrist. Tentatively, he walks his fingers under her chin.

She leans into it, eyes squinting.

“There’s a good girl,” Percy breathes, an open-mouthed smile robbing him of breath.

Curio purrs.

Vex finds him, later, in the bathtub with Curio in his lap. Unfortunately her appearance causes the cat to scrabble for cover, drawing clawmarks even through his pants - but it’s fine, it’s fine Vex, really -

really, it is.

--

“Hail to the returning hero,” Percy cheers. Vex has to take a moment to draw soak hair away from her eyes to see him properly, at which she cackles. 

“Percy! What did you do?”

Torn between an understatement and overexplaining, Percival settles instead for pilfering her coat, sauntering off to toss it in the dryer. On the way back he lobs a towel at her head - she loathes leaving her hair wet. 

He trusts Vex can deduce his schemes well enough by the evidence assembled: candles crowning surfaces out of Trinket-wagging range, nice linens and cutlery at the tiny table, his own pressed dress shirt and dark jacket, and the smell of roast vegetables, mashed potatoes and steak wafting from where they remain, warm and safe from the dog, in the kitchen

Cooking is just chemistry you can eat - or, that’s what his mother had told him to convince a young Percy to help out in the kitchen. After that it became a struggle to pry him away from the oven for seven months. Though the special interest had faded, much of the knowledge was baked in. Pun intended.

Today was her last long day before her hours returned to normal. Not that it was a given, but it was in writing, and from his understanding Vex had schmoozed and socialized well enough to potentially be looking at a more lucrative, less time-consuming, job offer. She could afford to say no, thankyou. And that was worth celebrating.

Percy grins sheepishly. “I might have cooked another, without any seasoning, for the four legged legion.”

She’s said it a thousand times before, and so she says it again: “You’re spoiling them, darling.” Which is true - it’s a welcome surprise, how often thoughts of simple joys to share with Trinket and the cats strike him. How easily he caves to the whims. 

No surprise, really. Spoiled, Vex says, of a steak divided eight ways to her feast, to her wine, to him. All for her.

“Besides - the kittens can’t eat solid food for some weeks yet, Percy.”

Well - shit.

[narrators-journal]

Off the clock

Yet another lil smut thing for Tatsujun! This one is a bit rougher, but I had a bit of fun writing it. I hope you guys enjoy it just as much lol.

CW: light motorcycle sex again, crossdressing for work, semi-public sex bc alley sex, creampies, frotting

From the outside looking in, Maid cafes were lots of fun. You go there for the experience, so the food being awful doesn’t matter, only the cute girls and fun roleplay. Which, can lead to a job that utterly exhausted Jun Kurosu after only a few hours on a good day, let alone a day like that one. Where his mind couldn’t stay out of the gutter.

Even as he played the role of a cutesy servant, Jun had to choke back the urge to call his customers 'Tacchi' now and then. He had to fight to not let the images of his boyfriend’s body, or phantom touches flow too far south while he worked. It was an obstacle that haunted him all day, but there was a bright side to it.

A bright side, that smiled at him when the ebony-haired maid was finally able to clock out for the day. Patient and beautiful in the early evening's light while he waited in the alley beside the maid cafe. “This is quite a hiding spot, Tacchi,” He joked, his arms over Tatsuya’s shoulders for a kiss as he spoke. “I couldn’t find a parking spot, and your boss said if I parked on the sidewalk again, I’d get arrested, so.” The brunette shrugged and chuckled into the kiss a bit. Only to give a more surprised noise when Jun shoved himself into the brunette. Desperate for as much contact as he could get through the thin material of his dress. And, despite the thick leather of his lover’s biker’s coat.

The feel of Tatsuya’s lips was almost like crack in that moment. The caramel taste of the cool soda he must’ve finished recently fresh on his tongue. The warmth of his body as his arousal began to ooze out of his skin thanks to Apollo, the dizziness of Jun’s lack of breath. It drove him nuts. After all day of bossy creeps who only leered at him, work drama, and the incessant itch for Tatsuya, the maid could’ve gotten drunk off of him.

But, since he couldn’t get inebriated off of a kiss alone, he settled for the squish of their bodies together and a frantic scramble to get his boyfriends pants down. “Jesus fuck, Jun. What’s gotten into you?” The brunette panted. Their kiss broken so that he could swat Jun’s impatient fingers away to free his semi-erect dick faster. All the while, Jun took the seperation as an excuse to attack Tatsuya’s neck, even as he spoke. “I’ve been trying not to get horny all fuckin’ day. I need you to rail me like a slut, right now, Suou.” “Holy shit, Jun, chill. We’re in an a- Ah!- alley!” His argument slammed to a halt when Jun hiked his work uniform’s thin skirt up and captured both of their dicks. And, no more complaints followed thatshow of desperation.

Instead, Tatsuya let his boyfriend absorb him back into the heat of the moment with quick, needy kisses and a mixture of strokes. Just as eager to chase the sparks of friction that came from their cocks when they rubbed together.

It was a mess of a moment. Jun’s hand slick with their mixed fluids, the kisses uncoordinated and breathless, and at any moment someone could pass by their almost conspicious spot. Nothing like how Tatsuya preferred their passions to go, but it all only fed into the ravenette’s lust. With the friction and taste of Tatsuya on his lips dancing with his need, the danger was hot. The way Tatsuya’s arms snaked around his waist to help him grind against him better could’ve driven him into his Joker form. It was all a rush of sensations and emotions. Sensations that built and bubbled until Jun could no longer stand the heat in his belly.

That was when he pulled away, breathless and frantic, “Please tell me you still have lube in your bike’s fuckin’...side shit.” “Saddlebags, junbug, and yes.” Tatsuya confirmed, “But, um...don’t you want to wait until we get home for this? So we aren’t caught?” He suggested. But, all the ravenette had to do to quell that anxiety was move over to the dinged up bike that his lover doted on. There, he found the lube, and leaned on the bike to pull his skirt up to present his ass to the cooler evening air.

That was it. That was all it took for Tatsuya’s warm brown eyes to light up with his own lustful flames. Jun would’ve been surprised at his sudden enthusiasm, if he hadn’t known the brunette like he did. “We do have to be quick, though.” Was the man’s final point. All while he pushed the cheap, silky fabric of Jun’s maid uniform further up so he could hold onto his hip. But, the dark-haired man only hummed as he watched over his shoulder, his boyfriend stroke the thickened, cold fluid onto himself before he pushed in.

God, the friction alone was pure bliss. The stretch of Tatsuya’s thick cock as it slipped into him, the near-painful warmth of Tatsuya’s hand on his hip. The drag of the brunette’s initial, slow thrusts. it was quick to earn moans from Jun, moans that fell from his lips more when Tatsuya’s hesitance boiled off. After that, his movements went from slow and shallow, to sharper and deeper.

So, in an instant, the maid had to brace himself against the course brick of the wall while his head swirled with wave after wave of pleasure. Each slap of Tatsuya’s hips against his ass like some sort of auditory aphrodisiac. Each brush of his too-warm hands on the man’s hip like a dose of excitement that tightened the knot in his belly. And that was even before Jun could begin to take in how well his boyfriend’s cock filled him while he was bent over like a cheap prostitute. “F-fuck Tacchi…” Jun whimpered while his unused hand scrambled over the leather seat of Tatsuya’s motorcycle. “I should jump you after...work more often.” his breath short, his skin too hot, even without the heat that Tatsuya gave off. But, his offer only netted him a low groan and a squeeze of his hips in response. His lover more focused on the rhythm of his thrusts and the sight of the witch’s maid uniform as it bounced in time with his movements.

But, his lack of a response did little to ruin it for Jun. After all, Jun didn’t give a fuck if one of his coworkers caught them. All he cared about was how good it felt when his lover’s nails bit into his skin. And each grunt and muttered curse his boyfriend let out with each needy moan. So, he didn’t put much thought into what noises slipped from his own mouth. Or whether the motorcycle he used for support squeaked when the fronts of his thighs bumped it. Unless, of course, his cock managed to brush against the bike while it bounced in time with the thrusts. “Jun! Fuck, I-I think I’m gonna cum!” Tatsuya hissed. His voice husky and tight with pleasure, and his thrusts growing sloppy as he spoke. “Ah! Tacchi, don’t you dare cum on my work dress!” was his own hissed response scraped up from his bliss-addled brain, only to get a growl of a response, “Fine then, you can ride home with cum on your thighs,”

To a normal man, that might’ve been a disgusting threat. But, for Jun, in the state he was already in, the thought only made his dick throb more. God, I hope he makes me ride home in this dress too. It’d be so hot to risk flashing people he passes. The feral side of Jun offered as his last coherent thought in the storm of sensations. Before the dam finally broke and the knot in his gut unravelled. “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck, Tacchi!” Spilled from his lips as the orgasm tore through his muscles. His strength sapped by the sudden onslaught of white hot euphoria that filled his brain. Just as hot as Tatsuya’s seed while it filled his ass. The heat in his belly only matched by the heat that radiated from his partner as both waited with puffed breaths for the high to pass.

Only once it had, did Tatsuya pull his softened cock out of Jun so that the shorter man could stand up. “You bastard.” Jun huffed without any venom in his voice, “Oh, yeah...woops.” Tatsuya said with an awkward chuckle and a step back to let the maid stand up and try to fix his uniform’s skirt. “But, I mean, I didn’t get any on your uniform.” “You’re still a bastard for it, Tacchi. Now take me home, before I leak and you do ruin my skirt.”

With another laugh, the tall male did as he was told, and Jun got into his spot on the back of the bike like usual. And, while neither further mentioned the event once the helmets were on, Jun relished the slow ebb of heat from Tatsuya’s body as he calmed down over the bike ride.

[askrickyharlyn]

PINNED . . .

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“Listen if I was a nut case I’d be a peanut shell. Not for any specific reason. Besides from you all making me crack under pressure all the fucking time.”

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Good evening, this is Ricky Harlyn reporting to you from “tumblr”…I’m not sure if I’m using the site correctly, I was asked to use this application anyway. Not like I know how to use it.

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Richard “Ricky” Harlyn: Ghostbusters OC

Original ghostbuster (1984-1993)

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Timeline:

- ghostbusters I (25)

- ghostbusters II (30)

- ghostbusters afterlife (62)

- ghostbusters frozen afterlife (65)

Face claim: Matt Dillon in the house that Jack built and asteroid city

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Originally a reporter from Edmonton who moved to New York City in 1979 at 20 years old. He originally called the ghostbusters after his station was haunted, and was later hired after the events of the 1st film. As of 2024, Ricky works as a reporter and weatherman for NBC.

Once possessed, always in and out of the loony bin

[kirby-souljourney-au]

🍅⚡️🩷 for any oc(s)!

Mm. Both, then!

🍅 (Tomato) - If Kirby absorbed them or their attacks, what Copy Ability [or Abilities] would he get? Alternatively, if they themselves are capable of using the Copy Ability, do they have a favourite?

Hara:

Well, Hara isn’t able to use Copy Magic, even though she is a Soul Matter Astral — it’s a very rare form of magic, and hardly any Astrals even in her time had it.

But if Kirby absorbed a Copy Essence from her… the ability would depend on what attack he’s absorbing for it.

Most of her attacks would give them Tornado, I think. In all honesty, i haven’t actually thought about this aspect yet, so I’m not 100% on what Ability she’d grant, but she seems like a windy type.

…If Kirby absorbed some of her raw, unformed Soul Magic, it’d give him invincibility for about 5 seconds. Soul Magic by itself in its raw form is incredibly powerful, hence all the greatest recorded Heroes of Yore have been Soul-Matters. Three of them had Copy Magic, including Kirby and… the first.

Auberon:

Again, even though he’s a Soul-Matter, he cannot use Copy Magic. Astrals are an endangered species on their own, but Soul-Matters are especially so because of the possibility of them wielding Copy Magic. They were explicitly hunted by some people back in the day, but the hunters have since been taken care of.

Anyway, when it comes to what Abilities Aubs would give, it again depends on what attack Kirby is absorbing from them.

Probably Fire or Spark, since Aubs usually attacks using his sword.

⚡️(Lightning Bolt) - Which Power Effects [Blizzard, Bluster, Sizzle, Slash, Zap] would their attacks grant? Do they have any particular weaknesses or resistances, elemental or otherwise?

Hara:

Because absorbing a normal attack from her would give Tornado, they’d probably give the Bluster effect to Kirby’s weapons.

Unless, that is, she’s using raw Soul Magic. That would grant Sizzle.

She’d likely be weak to most close-range attacks (like Finishing/Final Cutter, can’t remember exactly what it’s called), since she usually resorts to long-range battle. And for elemental weaknesses, I’d say Electricity would mess her up good. I don’t suggest attacking her, though. Gala will kill you for it.

Auberon:

His attacks would grant Sizzle or Zap effects, depending on what attack it is!

And he’d be weak to Water. Typical catboy.

🩷(Pink Heart) - If they were a Dream Friend, what would their moveset be like? How much HP do they have? Would they be a strong attacker, or would they take on more of a support role?

Hara:

Eh… she wouldn’t be the best Dream Friend, at least during the events of Soul Journey. She’s very much falling to her corruption, and it takes a god damn lot of willpower to remain sentient at her level of corruption, so she’d be relatively weak. It’d be like having a walking Glunk as an ally, or Splatoon 3 Side Order’s Pearl Drone with no upgrades except one (1) Drone Burst Bomb colour chip.

Sorry, Hara. I love you lots, but you are not built for fighting anymore.

Auberon:

His moveset… it’d probably be sort of similar to Meta Knight’s, but more powerful. Maybe with a few of Dameta’s moveset aspects? Oh, and they’d do Fire and Electricity easily.

He’d have a solid amount of HP as well. They’re a tough nut to crack! Unless you have a spray bottle full of water.

And yes, he would be one hell of an attacker! Their DPS would go off the charts in battle! Like, think a team of Flamberge and three Sizzle Dametas in Ultimate Choice. No one would survive.

Hehe… this was very fun to answer. I love these two so much